Archive of Our Own

Shane has never been one for parties. He likes the idea of them, they always sound fun. Drinking, and music, and all of his friends in one place. It sounds perfect. He likes to think maybe it would be, if they weren’t so fucking loud. And this party is loud. 

The music is blaring. He keeps moving further and further away from the speakers, but for some reason it’s still so loud it's vibrating his ribcage. His friends have created some sort of circle off in a corner by the bar. Their conversations overlap with the hundreds of other conversations happening at the exact same time. Which overlaps with the hockey game playing on the TV, not loud enough for anyone to know what was going on, but loud enough to add to the noise. And the conversations and the TV overlap with the clinking of glasses, and the booming laughter, and the god damn music. It's all so loud.

Shane tries to keep up with the conversation where he can. Right now it’s something about Hayden’s kids, everyone laughs, so Shane laughs too. He shifts where he stands, rocking ever so slightly, trying to match the motion with his breathing to give him something to notice outside of the noise. 

Every now and then someone will walk behind him and grab his shoulder, pull him back to say something in his ear. The scrambling in his head doesn’t allow for it to ever register so he feigns a laugh and returns to pretending to keep up with his friend’s conversation. Now it’s something about Scott Hunter. 

Shane’s eyes find their way to the floor. He quickly finds comfort in analyzing everyone's shoes. Almost everyone in the circle is wearing black shoes, except him and Ilya. 

Shane’s shoes are brown, they match his chocolate dress pants and compliment his white button down. Ilya said he was dressed too fancy, but Shane’s fear of being underdressed took over him. Ilya’s shoes are maroon, to match his maroon short sleeved mock neck and black dress pants. Truthfully, if it weren’t for Ilya, Shane would be wearing black shoes too. To him they’re the most practical, they match with everything. To Ilya, they’re boring and Shane needs to embrace more color and stop being so boring. A tiny smirk stretches onto his face remembering the conversation. 

“I could use a drink, who wants one?”

Ilya’s voice shakes Shane from his thoughts and he shoots his eyes back up to the conversation. Ilya’s eyes linger on him as everyone rambles off what they want to drink.

“Got it. Shane, can you help me carry them?”

“Yeah, of course.” Shane agrees, allowing Ilya to lightly grasp his arm and guide him towards the bar.

“Be right back!” Ilya calls back to unlistening ears. 

Once they reach the bar he lets go of Shane’s arm and places his hands on his shoulders, pushing down slightly until Shane takes the hint and slumps into a bar stool. He has no idea how much his legs hurt until he finally sits down, and god did sitting down feel good. Ilya rambles off everyone’s order to the bartender and then quickly turns his attention to Shane. 

“You okay?” His voice falls in a much softer place than when he was speaking to the bartender. It’s so soft it makes Shane’s heart flutter a bit. 

“I’m okay.” Shane lies, smiling softly up at Ilya. 

Ilya eyes him up and down. Almost as if he already knew the answer when he had asked and wasn’t satisfied with Shane’s reply. 

“We should leave,” he replies finally. 

“No!” The idea of ruining Ilya’s night makes Shane’s stomach twist with guilt. “I’m fine, we can stay.”

“It’s loud in here, maybe we should go outside for a while.” Ilya smiles gently at Shane placing a hand on his shoulder.

Shane is well past learning Ilya’s tricks though. He offers to go outside for a bit, they go for “a walk” and somehow end up in the car and on their way home. Shane’s grateful that Ilya is so attentive to how he’s feeling, but can’t help feeling guilty that he’s always ruining the night. 

“Ilya, we can stay.” 

Ilya sighs and goes to reply but is interrupted by the bartender arriving with their drinks. Shane quickly grabs three glasses, one in each hand and one tucked to his chest with his arm, leaving the other four for Ilya to take. 

“You two finally done making out over there?” Hayden calls as Shane starts handing out drinks. 

“You would have loved that show, huh?” Ilya chirps, going to hand Hayden his drink and pulling it away as Hayden reaches out to grab it.

“That’s enough ladies,” Shane rolls his eyes before taking the drink from Ilya and handing it to Hayden. 

Hayden sticks his tongue out and sneers. Ilya rolls his eyes dramatically in response. 

Just as quickly as the conversation carries on, Shane gets lost in the noise of it all again. The beat of the music still echoing throughout his chest. It makes his throat feel tighter, the air feel thicker. 

“Shane, you guys should go!” 

The sound of his name makes his vision shoot back into focus. 

“Huh?”

“The downtown arts festival,” Troy says excitedly. “It’s opening in five days. They’ve got that big networking night. They’re having booths, food stands, and live acts. You guys should come with us!” 

Shane’s eyes shoot over to Ilya, whose eyes are already on Shane. His face is entirely neutral, so Shane can’t tell if that’s something he would want to do. He must have lingered on Ilya’s face for a beat too long because Troy speaks up again.

“Who cares if Rozanov doesn’t like that stuff? You would like it. And he likes you, so.” Troy bumps his arm into Ilya, who smiles in return but never takes his eyes off Shane.

Shane knows he should say no. He knows that it will be far too many people, especially on opening night. It will be way too loud, and crowded, and hot because it’s July. He’s going to be overstimulated and he doesn’t even like art like that. And he’s going to have to make small talk, oh god the mingling.  His throat tightens just at the idea of it all.

“Sounds fun.” He says forcing the words. He lets a small smile pull onto his lips, “We’ll be there.”

He locks eyes with Ilya again. His smile looks almost pained as he nods once, and then drops his head towards the ground. 

Shane feels a pit grow in his stomach, maybe he misread Ilya’s cues. Maybe Ilya really didn’t want to go to the festival and was hoping Shane would say no. He can feel his heart start to race a bit. Fuck is he going to be mad at him? Ilya has never really been mad at him. Annoyed, for sure. But never mad enough that he can’t look at Shane, and right now he won’t look at him. Everything is still so fucking loud,  and Shane feels like he’s going to throw up or pass out or both. He needs to get out of here, now.

“Hey I think we shoul-”

“Fuck yeah! The pool table’s finally free. Let's go boys!” Hayden cuts Shane off and grabs his arm pulling him towards the pool table, everyone else follows behind them. 

“Shane’s on my team!” Hayden calls, handing Shane a cue.

“Whatever, I wanted Rozanov anyways.” Troy retorts as he starts racking the balls. 

So much for leaving. 

He tries so hard to focus on the game, but he can’t control the way his mind is spiraling. Is Ilya mad at him? Should he bring up the festival again and say he forgot they had plans? Did they have plans? Why won’t Ilya look at him? Has he looked at him and Shane just missed it?

“Shane?” Ilya breaks through Shane's thoughts. 

Shane’s eyes meet Ilya’s and he can almost feel tears bubbling when he processes the soft look Ilya has drawn across his face. 

“Is your turn,” he smiles. 

“Right, sorry.” Shane sighs before hitting the fourteen ball into the left pocket with ease. 

“Oh, so Shane gets the heart eyes, but when I missed my turn it was ‘Hayden, pay attention you idiot.’” Hayden scoffs in a poor Russian accent. 

“Would you like to get the heart eyes too Hayden?” Ilya smirks.

“Absolutely not.” Hayden replies too quickly. 

Shane can’t help but to chuckle at the conversation. Ilya bends over, making a show of shaking his ass in Hayden’s direction, before shooting the eight ball directly into a pocket. 

“Shit,” he murmurs.

“Hah!” Hayden bellows, “We won!”

“What the hell Rozanov?” Troy dramatically slams his head onto the pool table and sighs.

“I have had one too many to drink, I think. It was accident.” Ilya shrugs easily. 

Shane knows better though. Ilya is a rock when it comes to alcohol, and he almost never misses a shot in pool. Never mind accidentally hitting the eight ball in. He did it on purpose to end the game. Shane feels relieved, all he wants is to go home and lay down in silence. 

“We should probably head out,” Shane fakes a laugh. “If he’s so drunk he’s missing shots at pool, I think I have a problem on my hands.” Shane drags his hand across the top of Ilya’s back and squeezes his hand at the base of his neck. 

“Mmm, I should probably lay down.” Ilya leans dramatically against Shane, forcing him to hold his body weight against his chest.

“You threw our pool game so you could go get laid?” Troy accuses, voice laced in disapproval, “Unbelievable.” 

Ilya wiggles his eyebrows in response before tossing his head back onto Shane’s shoulder, feigning drunkenness. 

“Shane, before you go…do Rozanov,” Disgust snakes its way into Hayden’s tone as he looks Ilya up and down. “You have to meet the new rookie from San Francisco. I heard he’s a big fan.” 

Shane can feel every last ounce of his social battery draining from his body. He feels like if he talks to one more person he might actually keel over and die.

Hayden pushes away from the wall and heads towards Shane. “I just saw him at the bar, we have to say hi.”

“Yeah okay.” He nods, gently shoving Ilya off his chest. “Watch him, okay Troy? Don’t let him drink anymore!” He shouts as he is dragged off by Hayden.

“He isn’t drunk!” Troy shouts back.

The conversation with the rookie goes by pretty quick but not quick enough. It’s full of him gushing to Shane how much he looked up to him as a kid, and how he thinks he’s an amazing hockey player. All things Shane has no idea how to respond to, so he sits and smiles and nods. At the end of the conversation Shane tells him it was nice to meet him and thanks him. He adds that what he said means a lot to him. Which it does, it never fails to amaze him just how many rookies tell him they looked up to him, even though he’s barely 30. 

Shane and Hayden make their way back over to Troy and Ilya who have regrouped with the rest of their friends. Shane is elated to see that they are closer to the door, which will make his exit plan much smoother. Though he’s quickly met with the awful realization that the door is right next to the speaker. It's so loud he thinks his eardrums might burst. 

“It was nice seeing you guys,” Shane yells over the music, scooting over towards Ilya.

“We were just talking about bouncing over to another bar. You guys gotta come.” Harris yells back.

“I dunno, I think Ilya has had enough to drink.” Shane shoots a glance over at Ilya who is already looking at him.

“Come on Hollander, it's just down the street. It’ll be fun! Roz wants to go!” 

Shane shoots a look over at Ilya again, his face is entirely neutral. 

“Uh.” Shane starts, feeling his sweat pool in his palms. 

“One more bar and he carries me home.” Ilya jumps in, playfully slapping Shane on the chest. 

Shane can feel relief wash over him. Thank god. 

“And he is not strong enough to carry me, so we will go. Was fun boys!” Ilya quickly laces Shane’s hand in his and pulls them out the door, despite the protests going on behind them. 

The second they are outside, and the cool air brushes against Shane’s overly damp skin, he feels so much lighter. He lets out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. The silence rings in the air as Ilya guides him to the car. His limbs feel numb and his head is pounding. God he can’t wait to go to bed. 

“Thank you.” He says softly. 

“Mhm.” Ilya replies, squeezing his hand.

Ilya opens the passenger side door for him and gently closes it behind him after Shane mutters out another thank you. 

They aren’t too far from their house, about 15 minutes away. They drive the first 10 minutes in silence. Shane relishes in the sound of the tires on the road and the smooth slow breaths coming from the drivers side. Shane is extremely grateful that Ilya isn’t in a Bad Bunny mood like he usually is after they have had some drinks. Ilya’s hand comes to rest on Shane’s thigh and he can feel his throat starting to relax for the first time in two hours. It’s pure bliss. Thank god it’s quiet, and he can finally breathe again. 

As his brain starts to mellow, he tries to replay the events of the night through the fuzz of the alcohol and overstimulation. The clearest part to him is going to the bar for drinks, and Ilya trying to get them to leave early. He admits he probably should have taken the offer. 

For some reason he says yes to everyone but Ilya. Ilya he can say no to, because Ilya never makes him feel bad for it. His stomach drops as he remembers that he agreed to go to the art festival and the way Ilya reacted to it. 

“Ilya?” He says, breaking their silence.

“Mhm?” He hums softly glancing over at Shane, before diverting his eyes back to the road. 

“Did you not want to go to the art festival?” Shane asks sheepishly, afraid to make Ilya upset again. 

“It doesn’t matter to me.” 

There’s a silence between them as Shane tries to decipher if that means Ilya is mad at him. He quickly shoots his eyes over to Ilya, whose entirety focused on watching the road. He doesn’t look mad, but Shane isn’t entirely sure what mad really looks like on Ilya. He’s seen it in other situations; hockey games, when someone rear ended them, the few times his brother has called him. He’s never seen it directed towards Shane though, not like that anyways. The realization that he probably wouldn’t know Ilya was mad at him until it's too late punches the air out of his gut. He swallows hard trying to figure out how to navigate his reply.

“Did you want to go to the art festival?” Ilya asks, looking over to Shane and squeezing his thigh gently. 

“Well if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to go,” Shane replies quickly, trying to find a way to fix the situation. 

“Shane, listen.” Ilya squeezes firmly now, “Do you want to go?” 

“Not really,” Honesty falls from his lips, as it eventually always does with Ilya.

They pull into the driveway of their house and Ilya puts the car in park. Shane keeps his eyes locked forward on the house, too nervous to look Ilya’s face. Because what if he is mad at him? He can see shadows of their picture frames hanging in the living room through the windows. 

“Then why say yes?” Ilya unbuckles and turns his body towards Shane.

“I dunno,” Shane shrugs, keeping his gaze on their home. “Everyone really wanted us to go.”

“So?” 

“So,” Shane pauses for a second, searching for the right answer. “I didn’t want to upset them.” 

Ilya sighs deeply at this and Shane nearly flinches, his eyes falling to his lap. Ilya is mad at him. Shane’s shoulders slump slightly, and his stomach twists as guilt swirls in his abdomen. His mind rapidly tries to find ways to apologize. 

From his prefrial he can see Ilya’s eyes narrow gently, and guilt curls tighter in Shane’s chest

“Shane.” Ilya grips his chin and guides his face towards him. “What about you? Hm?”

Shane allows his head to be turned but attempts to keep his eyes low, avoiding Ilya’s face. He only glances up when Ilya squeezes his jaw, gently shaking it. Ilya drops his hand from Shane’s chin the second his eyes land on his face. He moves to cover Shane’s hands that rests in his lap with his own. Shane takes a deep breath as his eyes dance over Ilya’s face for any sign of anger. 

There is none. 

Confused by the lack of anger, he scans the others face again in hopes that his brain will be able to decode what Ilya means. 

“Me?” He asks, slowly turning his body towards Ilya. 

“Yes.” Ilya replies matter of factly, “What about you? What about what you want?” 

“Oh. I dunno. I guess it doesn’t really matter.” Shane replies flatly. 

He quickly realizes that must not have been the right thing to say given the way Ilya’s eyebrows furrow. 

“It does matter. It will be loud and crowded and you will hate it.” Ilya says sternly, leaning in slightly as he speaks. He drags his hold from Shane’s hand, letting his fingers trace up and down Shane’s arm. “You always say yes when you want to say no, just to make people happy. Why not just make Shane happy?”

He reaches down to squeeze Shane’s thigh again. 

Make Shane happy?

It’s almost comical to Shane that the idea had never really crossed his mind. He never really does just make Shane happy, does he? And apparently Ilya has noticed. Shane realizes, with a sick twist of embarrassment, that Ilya has been watching; reading him, noticing all the little yes’s he can’t even see himself giving. Shane can’t help the flood embarrassment that rushes over him. Ilya wasn’t upset with him because he didn’t want to go, he was upset because he knew Shane didn’t want to go. 

“Oh.” He swallows hard, looking down at his lap again. “I-I didn’t even notice. I was… I just…” He struggles to figure out what to say until his voice just trails off, throat pinching with embarrassment.

“You can’t always do this.” Ilya’s voice is impossibly soft but somehow still firm, it makes Shane’s head spin a bit. “Saying yes when you don’t want to. It’s not good for you.”

Shane nods quickly, trying to keep up, but his mind keeps replaying every yes he’s ever said when he didn’t want to.  

People pleasing has been a problem for Shane for as long as he can remember. Maybe it started with his Mom. She’s not demanding, and Shane can say no to her. He has plenty of times. She’s just so strong willed and really wants the best for him. He loves her so much, and the way she smiles when he agrees to the things she’s planned out makes it hard to say no. Maybe the crack started with his Mom being his soft spot, and it splintered out from there. 

“I am serious Shane.” Ilya squeezes his leg again, shifting back to his more stern tone. “You need to stop.” 

Shane tries to meet Ilya’s eyes, but can’t hold it and looks away again. 

“I know Ilya, I’m trying.” Shane tries to hide his exhaustion from his tone.

“Could try harder, no?” Ilya raises an eyebrow.  

“I get it, okay?” Shane pushes back, letting his enervation show this time. “I’m trying, but it’s hard. I guess I just need something that sticks. Something to hold me accountable.”

“Like what?”

The question throws Shane off because truthfully, he doesn’t know. He thinks maybe if he had some sort of system, like making himself do 30 push ups each time he people pleased, maybe he’d be more motivated to stop. He needs some sort of consequence, like his coaches used to do if he was ever late to practice. He did so many push ups in high school, he kind of started to like them. Which means clearly push ups won’t work as a consequence. 

“I don’t know. A system. Consequences. Something I can’t just talk my way out of.” Shane spills, nearly rambling, the words tumbling out faster than he can think.

He starts to feel the weight of everything; the yes’s he’s given when he wants to say no, the tension in his shoulders, the never ending knot in his stomach. It all makes him nauseous.

Ilya’s eyes are steady on Shane, his gaze never faltering. It makes Shane sweat. 

Ilya leans in slightly, his voice sturdy and calm. “You want me to help?” 

“You want to help?” Shane comes out smaller than anticipated.

“Yes, I can help. With consequences.” Ilya shrugs easily, his voice free from any inclination of teasing. 

The weight of addressing a problem so deeply rooted in Shane that he doesn’t even entirely notice he’s doing it starts to make him feel restless. He needs to change the tone of the conversation before he explodes. 

“What, you wanna punish me?” Shane smiles, raising his eyebrows and pulls Ilya’s hand from his thigh up to his mouth to kiss it. “Spank me every time I people please?” 

He can’t help but to chuckle to himself at that last part. The vulgarness of the word spank makes him cringe but he’s almost certain it will drive Ilya crazy enough to drop the conversation. Ilya loves when Shane is vulgar. 

“Would that help you?” Ilya’s voice is flat and serious. 

“What?” Shane sputters out, thrown off that Ilya didn’t take his bait. “Im kidding.” He forces out a tight laugh. 

“That didn’t answer my question.” Ilya’s eyes are locked onto Shane's and he can’t help but to squirm in his seat. Suddenly he wishes he had taken his seatbelt off when they parked, because it's starting to feel like it's suffocating him.  

“Um, I dunno, maybe?” He mutters out, hoping that his answer would please Ilya enough to end the conversation. 

“It would stop you people pleasing, yes?” Ilya raises his eyebrows with the question. 

Shane swallows hard. His chest tightens, his fingers fidgeting with the seam of his pant leg as the weight of the question presses down. Would it help him stop? 

He thinks again about all the times he’s said yes when he wanted to say no, all the little concessions he’s made without even noticing. Heat creeps up his neck, and the car suddenly feels much smaller than he remembers. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. Nothing comes out.

Finally, his voice comes, small and hesitant, trying to place the right words down. 

“I guess so.” He shifts in his seat, eyes darting to the dashboard, then back to Ilya for only a second. His mouth feels dry. “It…it would make me stop and think.”

Ilya hums to himself before gently tapping the side of Shane’s face and then getting out of the car. Shane sits for a minute frozen in place, his eyes tracing Ilya as he goes inside. 

What the fuck was that? 

Ilya always comes up with the strangest ways to watch Shane squirm. He loves to make Shane feel like he’s been placed under a microscope; exposed. And he’s disgustingly good at it. Shane’s brain finally catches up to him and he lets go of the breath he's been holding, scrambling out of the car. 

When he gets inside Ilya has already stripped to his briefs and is taking out the salmon they put in the fridge earlier that morning. Shane smiles at the sight and leans into the fridge from behind Ilya to grab the asparagus. Ilya tuts and takes the asparagus from Shane’s hands. 

“No, you shower. I’ll cook.” He smiles, turning and leaning in to press a slow, sweet kiss to Shane’s lips. 

It amazes Shane just how much Ilya can ground him with a simple kiss. They have kissed so many times before. Hundreds of times, Shane’s sure of it. But still every single time they kiss his brain starts to feel all floaty and light. 

“Whatever you say, gorgeous.” Shane murmurs blissfully, eyes still closed from the kiss. 

“Go,” Ilya playfully smacks his ass. “Before I change my mind.” 

“Going.” Shane says, smacking Ilya’s hand away right as he squeezes Shane's ass, and jogs upstairs. 

By the time Shane comes back downstairs, his hair still damp from the shower, the house smells like butter and lemon. Ilya hums quietly to himself at the stove, shoulders loose, completely at ease. The anxiety that had tangled tight in Shane’s chest in the car loosened in the shower, and now at the sight of Ilya, it slips quietly out of reach.

Dinner is easy. They eat standing at the counter, neither bothering with the stools Shane’s Mom had got them. Shane steals bites off Ilya’s plate just to be annoying, Ilya swats his hand away and threatens him in Russian under his breath. He giggles and dips his head to place a kiss on Ilya’s hand where it holds his fork. They talk about nothing; practice schedules, a dumb video Hayden sent, whether asparagus is better roasted or grilled. The night folds in on itself gently, like it always does when it’s just the two of them. 

By the time they crawl into bed, Shane’s thoughts are hazy and slow, his body heavy in the best way. Ilya pulls him close, guiding his head to lay on his chest. Shane zones in on the sound of Ilya breathing, the steady tick of his heart beneath his ear. The soft circles Ilya traces on his back only makes his tired limbs tingle and his brain buzz. He lets himself drift. 

.

.

Shane wakes to the sun peaking through the trees, spreading across his face. He groans as he stretches slightly and reaches over to pull Ilya close to him. He cracks open his eyes in confusion when all he feels next to him are wrinkled sheets. For half a second, panic sparks, then the smell hits him; Coffee, bacon, something sweet. He blinks, disoriented, and tunes into the familiar sounds of their kitchen: a pan clinking, the low murmur of music. He tosses his head back against the pillow and smiles unabashedly at the ceiling. 

After a few minutes and some stretching, he finally pulls himself out of bed. He spends two seconds looking for his pants before giving up, settling on staying in his briefs. He pads down the hallway, rubbing sleep from his eyes, already smiling when he spots Ilya at the counter.

“So that’s where my pants went.” His smile present in his voice as he wraps his arms around Ilya from behind, presses a lazy kiss to his shoulder.

“You don’t need them anyways.” Ilya murmurs, leaning his head back to catch Shane’s lips in a chaste kiss. “I like to see you.” 

“Oh really?” Shane says, turning Ilya around and tossing his arms over his shoulders. 

“Mhm,” Ilya hums, pressing a deeper kiss to Shane’s mouth.

Shane could taste Ilya’s toothpaste and if he had been more awake he would have been self conscious of his own morning breath. He pulls away with a smirk already plastered on his face. 

“Too bad these are in the way of seeing more, huh?” Shane lightly snaps the waistband of his briefs. 

“Oh, is no problem.” Ilya smirks back, raising his eyebrows. 

“No?” Shane can’t help the smile that pulls across his face.

“No. They will be on the floor very soon.”  Ilya grabs Shane’s ass with both hands.

“Really?” Shane says, ignoring the way his breath hitched. 

“Mhm, maybe now.” Ilya teases, dipping his hands into the back of Shane's briefs and lowering them just enough to reveal his back dimples. 

Shane lets out a shaky breath and flutters his eyes closed as Ilya gropes his ass again, pulling him forward so his chin rests on Ilya’s shoulder. He grabs Shane’s ass so hard it pulls him up onto his tip toes. Shane giggles as Ilya starts peppering kisses on his neck and shoulder. Ilya attempts to pull him in closer and Shane stumbles from being on his tip toes. He opens his eyes as his hand shoots to grab the counter before he falls. They both laugh as they rebalance him. His eyes quickly scan over the breakfast Ilya has made them. 

Too bad it's going to get cold. 

Ilya kisses Shane’s neck again but his moan is cut off as his breath is completely pulled from his chest at the sight of the paper taped on the fridge.

It’s a large white piece of paper. Across the top in big bold letters it reads: Shane’s People Pleasing. And written just below it in parentheses was 20=Spanking. 

There were already six tallies. 

Shane’s entire body locks in place and he forgets how to breathe. His fingers curl so tight against the counter he’s sure he’s going to rip a chunk off. His eyes scan the chart over and over again. He’s sure he’s reading it wrong. 

Ilya quickly notices the way Shane froze and pulls back to search Shane’s face for what’s wrong. When Shane doesn’t look back at him he turns to see what Shane is looking at. 

“Shane?” Ilya scans his face again, pulling back further from their embrace. 

Shane continues to grip the counter, letting Ilya pull away. He rocks slightly as Ilya moves but is still frozen in place, staring at the chart. 

“You can’t be serious.” He breathes out, forcing a short laugh.

“About what?” Ilya’s eyes never leave Shane’s face. 

“That.” Shane finally lets go of the counter to gesture towards the fridge. “The chart.”

“You said you wanted something that sticks.” Ilya shrugs as Shane finally breaks eye contact with the chart and looks over to him. 

“Yeah but,” He lets out a small incredulous laugh looking back over towards the tallies, “That was a joke.”

“You were joking about the spanking.” Ilya says, causing Shane to snap his eyes back over to him.  “You weren’t joking about wanting help.”

“You don’t think that's gonna work?” Shane’s voice feels impossibly high and another laugh of disbelief falls from his lips. He can’t believe that this is a conversation he’s having right now. 

He can’t believe that Ilya thinks his people pleasing is a big enough problem that it actually deserves a punishment. And a spanking of all punishments. It's so juvenile, so… embarrassing. 

It’s embarrassing to even think about, never mind having in big bold letters plastered on his fridge for everyone that comes into his house to see. He can’t even pretend it’s not about him, it has his name on it. 

“I think it would make you stop and think.” Ilya says, patting Shane’s shoulder. 

“Right.” Having his words thrown back at him makes him blow out a quick sigh. 

Shane shifts to scan the chart again. The title. The tallies. The word spanking.

“So,” His voice trails off. “The tallies?”

“Is when you people please,” Ilya walks over to the cabinet and takes out two plates. “So you can see it happening.” 

Shane tries to clear his throat so his voice comes out steadier. And if not steadier at least lower or less out of breath. 

“And when there’s twenty?” His voice shakes, clearing his throat clearly didn’t work. 

“When there is twenty, we do it.” Ilya doesn’t even look towards Shane when he says it, he simply starts making their plates for breakfast. 

The idea of Ilya actually spanking him sends a shiver down his spine. He thinks in any other context or situation maybe he would think it was kind of hot. If it was in the bedroom, and Ilya had made some joke about Shane being naughty and it came about naturally. This is much different than that. This is planned, and methodical. Shane gets to see himself getting closer and closer to it happening. It isn’t some funny little joke in the bedroom that turns out hot. It’s Shane getting in trouble, because he can’t say no to people. Shane has never had embarrassment reach this deeply into his core. He wants to run and hide and never look Ilya in the eye again. 

He pauses, waiting, praying, that Ilya will laugh. That he will crack a smile and make fun of how nervous Shane was. That they could pretend that this conversation never happened, and Ilya was just joking, and they could get back to the kisses Ilya had just been pressing on Shane’s neck. 

When after a minute the smile doesn’t come Shane can’t help the way his head spins in disbelief. Ilya is serious.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice still just as soft and breathy as before. 

“Yes.” Ilya says, placing a plate in front of where Shane was standing and pushing a stool behind him. 

“And you want to do this?” Shane’s eyes scan Ilya’s face again for any sort of joke.

“I want to help you, yes.” Ilya taps the chair he placed behind Shane, and Shane wordlessly sits. 

Ilya places a fork down on his plate, and moves behind Shane to push him in a little. Shane stares at the chart, his eyes only shifting back to Ilya when he walks over to grab his own plate of food before settling down next to him. He looks over to Shane, and then down at Shane’s plate of food, nodding his head towards the food motioning for him to eat. Shane swallows hard and picks up his fork to stab at the eggs on his plate. 

“And if I don’t agree?” He says after a while, slowly looking over to Ilya.

“Then we don’t do it.” Ilya says simply, shooting a soft smile over to Shane. 

Shane doesn’t feel any better now that the ball is in his court again. He doesn’t have to do it, Ilya gives him an out. Realistically, he knew Ilya would never make him do it if he didn’t want to. And Shane shouldn’t want to. It’s not that he wants to. The idea of Ilya spanking him and scolding him like he is a child is the least appealing thing he can think of right now. But Ilya is right, it would make him think twice. And he would love to be able say to no to people when he doesn’t want to do things. 

“Okay.” Shane says plainly and starts to eat the food Ilya made him.

They sit in silence for a while. The only sounds being their forks scraping against their plates, and Ilya’s unnecessarily loud chewing. For once, the silence seems to be driving Shane crazy. He would much rather the blare of music at a party than the never ending race of his thoughts right now. He keeps glancing up at the chart, at the tallies already on the board. They just started and he already has six tallies. How does he have six tallies?

“If you are scared we don’t have to,” Ilya looks over to him and shrugs as he speaks. “I just thought it would help.”

“I'm not scared,” Shane huffs. “I just, I dunno.”

“You want to stop people pleasing, yes?” Ilya reaches over and pats Shane’s thigh letting his hand linger there.

He does. So badly. He wants to say no and not feel bad. He wants to just make Shane happy sometimes. 

“Yea, I do.” A tiny, almost self deprecating, smile tugs at Shane’s lips. 

“So why not try?” Ilya’s voice is incredibly sweet again, the sweetness he reserves just for Shane. “Maybe it could help.”

The care laced in Ilya’s voice pulls a genuine smile from Shane. 

“Maybe it could.” 

He can feel the tension in his shoulders start to melt a little. The tightness in his stomach uncurls ever so slightly. It’s Ilya he’s doing this with. And Ilya is the one person he knows for certain he can say no to. Because Ilya makes Shane feel safe. Because Ilya is safe. 

“Okay,” He says finally, placing his hand on Ilya’s. “We can try it.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows and scans over Shane’s face, "Don't say yes for me, only if you want to.”

Shane can’t help but to roll his eyes, “I’m not saying yes to appease you Ilya. I want to try it.”

“You want to?” Ilya still hasn’t stopped scanning Shane’s face for any form of doubt. 

Shane learned very quickly that he needs to explicitly tell the other what he wants. Ilya constantly checks in with him, almost forcing Shane to communicate his wants and needs in doing so. It feels good to be so loved that Ilya will not accept that Shane is okay unless he hears it directly from his mouth.

“Yes.” Shane says firmly, “I want to.”

“Okay,” Ilya smiles and leans in to press a quick kiss to Shane’s lips. “We do it then.”

Ilya gets up and gathers his plate from the counter, taking it to the sink. Shane can’t help but to smile to himself as Ilya begins washing the dishes. 

His smile falters as he looks back over towards the chart. The six tallies stare menacingly back at him. He takes a steadying breath before gathering his plate and heading towards the sink. It won’t be an issue anymore. This will make him think twice. This will force him to say no more. Shane is sure he will never get to twenty.

.

.

The rest of the day carries on like normal. He and Ilya work out together after breakfast. They shower and find time to suck each other off before they meet Shane’s parents for lunch. The afternoon bleeds into the night and by the time they get home it’s already 8 pm. 

“Are you tired?” Ilya asks, taking Shane’s coat from him and hanging it up. 

“No, not yet.” 

“You want to watch a movie?” He gently drags his hand up and down Shane’s spine.

“Yeah, okay.” Shane smiles softly. 

Ilya immediately beams in response. 

“I will make popcorn.” Ilya’s voice is almost giddy and he presses a kiss onto Shane's lips before scurrying into the kitchen. 

Does Shane love movies? No. He doesn’t hate them by any means, but he definitely doesn’t love them as much as Ilya does. But Shane loves Ilya, so he would watch a million movies just to make him smile. 

He must admit though, he loves when they have movie night. He gets to curl up next to Ilya and pretend he’s paying attention while Ilya traces shapes gently across his skin. 

Shane gathers their designated movie night blanket, it's Ilya’s favorite because it’s the softest one they have, and settles on the couch. Ilya comes back quickly with freshly popped popcorn and two cans of ginger ale. He places them on the coffee table and grabs the remote before plopping down next to Shane. 

“What do you want to watch?” He asks, opening Netflix on the tv.

“I dunno.” Shane scoots closer to Ilya, snuggling into his side.

Ilya eyes Shane quickly before turning back towards the TV. He scrolls through movies in silence for a few minutes, and Shane pretends he’s looking too. 

“Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” Ilya clicks on the movie, pulling up the synopsis. 

Shane can’t help but to grimace at the suggestion. He fucking hates horror movies. It's not that they scare him, he just doesn’t see the appeal. Why on earth would he want to watch a bunch of people die gruesomely? He would rather watch anything else actually. 

“Okay, sure.” Shane says.

Ilya pulls away, turning his whole body towards Shane. His eyebrows are deeply furrowed. 

“Go put a mark on the chart,” He says firmly, pointing towards the kitchen.

“What?” Shane can feel his face heat up, “Why?”

“You hate horror movies.” 

Shane stares blankly at Ilya for a second, then narrows his eyes. 

“So, that was on purpose?” 

“Was a test to see if you would think twice.” Ilya shrugs, “Now go.”

Shane sighs heavily, dropping his chin to his chest before dramatically getting up off the couch.

“Why do I have to be the one to mark it?” He whines.

“You did it.”

He stomps his way into the kitchen, and picks the marker up off the counter. He pulls off the cap and stands in front of the chart, just staring at it. He hesitates for a second more, sighing again and quickly drawing another tally on the chart. 

Stupid fucking chart. 

He tosses the marker down and stomps his way back into the living room. He makes a scene of flopping heavily onto the couch beside Ilya.

“Was six before, so better be seven or I add two.” Ilya says eyeing Shane up and down.

“There’s seven,” Shane pouts, folding his arms across his chest.

“Don’t be a brat. You did it.” Ilya tosses his arm over Shane’s shoulders and pulls him closer to him. “Now what do you want to watch?”

Shane sits in silence for a minute, not willing to give up his pout yet. Ilya just silently grabs the blanket and drapes it over both of their laps. He tucks it slightly under Shane’s thigh and waits. 

“Can we watch Finding Nemo?” Shane asks quietly. 

Ilya chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He pulls Shane in closer to him as he closes out Netflix and opens Disney Plus.

“Of course.”  

. 

.

The next morning Shane and Ilya stop by their favorite coffee shop on their way to a meeting with their agent, their hands intertwined as they stand in line. Shane traces his eyes over the menu, reading all the options despite the fact he gets the same thing each time they go there. 

“What can I get for you?” 

“A brown sugar iced latte with oat milk, please.” Ilya smiles easily at the barista as he orders. 

“Same for you?” She asks looking at Shane, already typing it into the register.

“Uh, yeah.” Shane smiles. 

Ilya glances over at him. Shane pulls out his wallet and taps his card before Ilya can. He presses the highest tip percentile and then guides them toward the pickup counter. 

“Shane,” Ilya says quietly, leaning in. 

“Yeah?”

“You don’t like oat milk.” 

Shane stares at the pick up counter. He blinks as he feels Ilya’s gaze on him. He doesn’t like oat milk. The thickness of it nearly makes him gag. He much prefers skim milk. 

“It’s fine,” He glances over to Ilya quickly giving his hand a small squeeze, like that settles it.

Ilya hums under his breath, “It’s fine, or you just said yes?” 

Shane opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it. He sighs and lets his shoulders sag. 

“She already put it in the register,” he sighs. “I didn’t want to make her redo it.” 

“Order for Shane!” The barista calls as she slides their coffees onto the counter. 

“Chart.” Ilya says, smacking Shane lightly on the back as he steps forwards. 

“Come on,” Shane groans. “That one was automatic!”

“Exactly,” Ilya says without looking back.

Ilya picks up one of the drinks and leans in to say something to the barista. She smiles, nods, then disappears behind the counter with the drink. Shane drops his head, exhaling.

“Here,” Ilya says when he returns, pressing the cup into Shane’s hand.

“Thanks.” 

.

.

By the time they get home that night Shane’s legs ache. Half from his workout and half from helping Ilya wrestle his mom’s new couch through her front door. 

“Is an ugly couch.” Ilya pulls open their front door, stepping aside to let Shane in first. 

“It’s not ugly, Ilya.”

“It’s orange!” Ilya closes the door behind them, wordlessly taking Shane’s gym bag from him. 

“It’s her favorite color,” Shane sighs, rolling his eyes.

“Of course it is,” Ilya laughs, stumbling slightly as he pulls off his shoes.

“Why don’t you tell her it’s ugly then?”

“Why would I do that?” 

Shane smiles to himself, kicking off his shoes as Ilya presses a kiss on his temple. He lines them up neatly on the rack, then picks up Ilya’s and places them beside his without thinking.

“You wanna shower with me?” He peels off his shirt, desperate to get the damp fabric off his skin.

“Stupid question,” Ilya replies, scooping Shane into a hug, kissing along his neck before murmuring in his ear, “Can I eat your ass after?” 

“Stupid question,” Shane hums back.

He grabs Ilya's hand and tugs them towards the stairs. 

“Ah,” Ilya plants his feet, pulling Shane towards the kitchen instead. “Chart first.”

Shane groans, “For the coffee?” 

“Yes. For the coffee.” 

He trudges into the kitchen and huffs as he snatches the marker off the counter. He scowls at the paper. Seven neatly laid out tallies stare back at him. He begrudgingly adds one more, with a sharp flick of his wrist. 

“There,” he moves slightly to show Ilya the chart, “Eight.”

“Nine,” Ilya corrects.

Shane frowns. “What?”

“Should be nine,” Ilya says easily. “Add one more.”

“For what?” Shane’s stomach dips.

“You moved your workout time to help your mom move the couch.” Ilya leans against the counter, arms crossed.

“So?”

“You work out at same time every day,” Ilya replies, like it's obvious.

“That doesn’t count!” Shane folds his arms defensively.

“It counts.” 

“Why?” Shane’s brows knit together.

Ilya tilts his head. “Did you want to move your workout time?” 

Shane swallows hard, then turns back to the chart. His grip tightens on the marker as he draws another tally. 

Nine. 

He caps the marker and sets it down carefully, eyes glued to the tallies on the page. He’s almost halfway there. 

Ilya steps closer and gently cups Shane’s hips, turning him until they’re face to face. Shane lets his head tip forward until his forehead presses gently onto Ilya’s chest. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. “I get it.” 

“Good.” Ilya says softly and kisses the crown of his head. “Now let’s shower.” 

.

.

Each day that passes feels busier than the last. Today, their team had set up a last-minute team bonding lunch. The draft was last month, so it would be nice to welcome the new rookies before everything started to get hectic again.

It’s a casual lunch, so t-shirts and jeans are sufficient, which Shane much prefers anyway. He doesn’t feel anywhere near as overwhelmed by lunch than he does by his team’s excessive amounts of parties. Lunch doesn’t have music so loud it repositions his lungs, and that alone makes a world of difference. Despite Shane feeling pretty confident today, Ilya still sits beside him, tracing idle patterns on his thigh beneath the table.

They’re halfway through eating when Evan stands up at the other end of the table, already grinning a little too wide.

“Alright, who’s in for shots?” he announces, lifting a clear bottle. “Vodka. Just one round.”

A couple of guys cheer. Someone bangs their fist on the table. Out of everyone, he looks straight at Shane and Ilya.

“You two in?” 

“I’m gonna have to pass,” Shane says without hesitation, nudging Ilya’s shoulder with his own. “But Cap loves vodka.”

Ilya snorts, lifting his eyebrows dramatically. “It’s true.”

A few laughs ripple around the table, and Ilya gently squeezes Shane’s knee under the table.

“Come on, Hollander. One shot won’t kill you.” 

Shane shakes his head easily. “Nah, I’m good.”

Evan looks to Ilya, lowering his voice. “You’re really gonna let him miss out?”

Ilya doesn’t miss a beat.

“Vodka makes him throw up,” he says flatly, slinging an arm around Shane’s shoulders. “So unless you plan on taking him home and holding his hair, is bad idea.”

The table erupts. Shane feels heat creep up his neck, but he’s smiling. 

“And,” Ilya adds, deadpan, “He gets very horny when drunk. Is distracting for me.”

That gets even louder reactions; someone groans, a few people whistle.

“Alright, alright,” Evan laughs, throwing his hands up. “Shots are canceled for Hollander.”

Shane’s face is beat red. He leans in closer to Ilya, dropping his voice. “You’re awful.”

“You said no,” Ilya murmurs back, squeezing his thigh again. “Good job.”

Ilya pats his back as he gets up and heads to the side of the table where they are setting up the shots.

Shane exhales, something warm blooming in his chest. He said no. He can’t help the small smile that creeps onto his face. 

After everyone takes their shots the table starts to buzz a little louder, now that everyone is loosening up. Shane feels surprisingly relaxed by the time they're almost finished eating. He is already planning out what he and Ilya are going to do after this. 

When building their house Shane was adamant about having a bathtub big enough to comfortably fit both men. And today they were going to use it. Just the idea of being able to relax against Ilya’s chest in the hot water made Shane feel sleepy.

“Hey you two!” Troy calls from across the table, “We hitting the bar after this?”

Shane freezes mid chew. His chest tightens, stomach twisting. There goes their relaxing evening in the bath. His hand clenches around his fork and he glances over to Ilya in hopes he will read Shane’s mind and say no. Ilya’s eyes meet his and he gives him a nearly undetectable knowing look. Shane waits another second, confused by Ilya’s silence. Ilya simply smiles softly at him. 

Oh. He wants Shane to be the one to say no. 

Panic flares in Shane’s stomach and a tightness pulls into his chest. His throat is suddenly dry. 

“I… uh,” His words falter and he almost gives in to the knee jerk reaction to say yes. 

Under the table Ilya’s thumb strokes the back of Shane’s hand where he’s gripping the arm of his chair. Shane swallows and shifts in his seat. 

“I’m actually pretty spent,” his voice is tight and slightly shaky. 

“You sure?” Troy frowns.

“I’m sure.” Shane confirms, jaw tight. “Maybe next time.”

“Okay, next time.” Troy smiles easily and turns to invite someone else.

Shane exhales and a rush of relief washes through him. That went way easier than he thought it would be. Ilya lets out a soft approving hum. 

“Ready to go?”

“Mhm.” 

Ilya stands up and starts to say their goodbyes. Shane follows suit, standing up and collecting Ilya’s phone and wallet off the table. He trails behind Ilya who is already making his way around the room. 

Shane squints as his eyes adjust to the bright summer sun. He trails a step behind Ilya, letting himself be guided to the car. By the time they reach it Ilya pulls Shane into a firm hug. 

“You did so good,” his smile present as he whispers softly into Shane’s ear.

“I did it,” Shane whispers back excitedly. 

Ilya pulls away and kisses Shane sweetly before opening the car door for him. As Shane sits in the passenger seat a wide grin spreads onto his face. The panic, the tension, it’s all melted into pride. He did it.

They pull into the driveway 10 minutes later and Shane still can’t keep the grin off his face. His steps feel so light as he nearly bounces inside and kicks off his shoes. Ilya giggles, bending down to collect them and put them on the shoe rack. 

“Can we take a bath?” 

“Shane, it’s July. Is thirty degrees outside.” Ilya can’t help the smile that pulls on his face.

“Please,” Shane whines. “I can crank the AC. I just want to relax with you today.”

Ilya rolls his eyes fondly and shakes his head. He leans against the wall, watching Shane with amusement. Shane’s grin only widens as he walks over to Ilya and drapes his arms over his broad shoulders. He dips his head ever so slightly, catching Ilya’s lips in his. He kisses him slowly, unable to help the smile that pulls onto his face when Ilya’s mouth chases him as he pulls away. 

“Please,” Shane pleads, dragging the word out and putting on his best pout. 

“You’re lucky I love you,” Ilya murmurs, his voice soft.

“I know,” Shane smiles and tugs Ilya towards the stairs. 

Three steps in he stops, causing Ilya to gently bump into his back. 

“What?” 

Shane turns back towards the kitchen and glances over at the chart on the fridge. He could feel the worry spread across his face. Ilya darts his eyes over Shane’s expression and then traces his gaze over to the chart. 

“None today,” He says softly, shaking his head and squeezing Shane’s hand. “Come on.” Ilya steps around Shane and begins guiding him upstairs. 

None today. 

Pride pulls at Shane's mouth. 

He finishes filling the bath as Ilya gathers their clothes and towels. He turned up the AC on their way to the bathroom so a shiver starts to settle in Shane’s spine as he gets undressed. 

Ilya piles their clothes on the counter closest to the bathtub and quickly undresses himself. He settles himself in the water, resting his back against the edge opposite of the spout, then motions for Shane to join. The hot water tingles at his skin as he sinks against Ilya’s chest. He rests his head against Ilya’s shoulder and quickly feels arms wrap around his waist. Shane can’t help the small noise of contentment that escapes him. 

They sit in absolute silence for a while. Shane has had his eyes closed since he leaned against Ilya, and truthfully could fall asleep here.

“I’m so proud of you.” Ilya whispers in his ear and kisses Shane’s temple. “You have been trying hard.”

“I have,” Shane agrees softly, not able to suppress his smile.

“Such a good boy.” Shane can hear Ilya’s smirk.

“Fuck off,” Shane scoffs, his eyes still closed.

“What?” Ilya purrs teasingly, “I thought you like when I call you that?”

“Shut up,” Shane smiles and shakes his head.

“You don’t?” Ilya’s voice deepens and he starts to kiss down Shane’s neck. 

“I do,” Shane whispers, breathless.

Ilya hums in response and trails his hands down Shane’s thighs. Shane’s breath hitches.

Ilya presses his lips to Shane’s ear. “You want a reward for your hard work?”

“Please,” Shane nearly whines. 

Ilya hums low, sliding one hand up Shane’s inner thigh. “Mm, I think you earned it,” he murmurs, voice teasing but warm. 

Shane arches slightly against Ilya’s abdomen as he wraps his hand around the base of Shane’s already hard dick. He drags his hand up slowly and twists his wrist once he reaches the tip. Shane shivers at the motion.

“I’m so proud of you.” Ilya whispers again, now lazily jerking him.

“Ilya,” Shane swallows hard. “If you keep saying that I’m gonna cum before we even really start.” 

“Is true,” Ilya grips him a little tighter and starts to pick up the pace. “You’re trying hard, doing so good.” 

Ilya starts kissing lazily down his neck. Shane can’t help but to deepen the arch in his back and moan. It echoes in their bathroom but Shane can’t find it in himself to care.

“Feels good?”

“Mhm,” Shane nods his head. “So good.”

Ilya hums again, and Shane turns to kiss him deeply. Ilya starts flicking his wrist with precision now, one stroke squeezing tightly the next not tight enough. Shane breaks the kiss with another moan. 

“Such a good boy Shane,” Ilya’s voice is low and deep.

“Fuck,” it comes out breathy and needy.

“Look at me,” Ilya demands and Shane’s eyes immediately open.

Ilya focuses his strokes just on the tip now, fast and unforgiving. Shane’s eyebrows pinch together and his mouth falls open as a high pitched whine gets lost in his throat. It's so much.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane grabs at Ilya’s arm to slow him, but Ilya quickly captures both of Shane’s wrists in his free hand. He presses them tightly together holding them in place.

“Oh my god, Ilya please.” Shane whines. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Ilya repeats.

“Oh fuck,” Shane scrunches his eyes as tightly as he can and digs his nails into the palms of his hands as he spurts into the water. 

After a few more strokes Ilya slows to a stop. Shane collapses backwards against him, breath heaving. As Ilya slowly lets go of Shane's wrists, his arms melt down with the rest of him. He heaves against Ilya for a few minutes until his heart rate starts to slow.

“To bad it was reward,” Ilya says finally.

“Huh?” Shane croaks.

“Could keep going until you cum again,” Ilya shrugs, “Or until you cry, whichever came first.”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane huffs and if he hadn’t just finished, that would have made him painfully hard.

“Next time,” Ilya smirks.

“Okay,” Shane swallows hard and glances at Ilya, not missing the way his eyes sparkle with excitement. 

Shane drops his head, glancing down at the water. His face scrunches in disgust as he sees the remnants of his reward. 

“Oh my god, gross.” 

“I knew that was coming,” Ilya chuckles, tapping Shane’s thigh. “Up.”

Shane complies easily and shivers when the cold air hits him. Ilya gets up and scoots past Shane to drain the water. He turns and lightly pats Shane’s ass.

“Over to the shower.” 

Ilya grabs Shane’s hand to stabilize him as he gets out and Shane does the same for him. They quickly make their way over to the shower across the room. Once they’re in, Shane can’t help but glance at Ilya’s rigid dick while he wets his hair.

“Ilya?” 

“Mhm?” Ilya’s eyes are closed, continuing to wet his hair.

“Can I suck your dick?”

Ilya’s eyes shoot open and he mutters under his breath in Russian before nodding his head. 

Shane sinks to his knees and quickly licks a stripe up Ilya’s length. He relishes in the noise it pulls from him. He immediately takes the whole length into his mouth. He puts his best work into this blowjob. 

He hopes Ilya will tell him he’s proud of him again. 

The afternoon shifts into night before their eyes. When Shane comes back from brushing his teeth Ilya is sitting in bed, not yet under the covers, scrolling on his phone. Ilya catches Shane’s wrist as he goes to walk past and pulls him close to the bed. He tilts his chin up towards Shane and scrunches his face, puckering his lips. Shane shakes his head fondly and leans down to peck Ilya with a kiss.

“Can you get me some water?” 

“Of course,” Shane grasps Ilya’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. 

He flicks on the hallway light as he makes his way to the kitchen. He walks over to the fridge and the sight of the chart makes him freeze in place for a minute. He almost forgot it was there. His stomach twists as he stares at it. He sighs before quickly pulling the door open. He bends down and feels a few of the bottles, picking what he determines is the coldest one and turning to return to the bedroom. 

Ilya smiles when Shane enters the room and thanks him as he grabs the bottle. He quickly cracks it open and takes a sip. Shane pulls off his shirt and pants, placing them in the hamper before climbing into bed. He tosses the covers over his legs and rests his back against the headboard. 

“Can I ask you something?” It leaves his mouth before he’s even sure he wants to ask. 

“Sure.” A gentle smile draws on Ilya’s face. 

“What were the first six tallies for?” Shane asks quietly. 

Ilya looks over at Shane, whose eyes are glued forwards, and clicks off his phone. He places it beside them on the bed. 

“All from night of the party,” Ilya replies softly.

“What were they for though?” Shane asks again.

“Shane,” Ilya scoots closer to him. “Why?” 

Shane finally turns to look at Ilya. “Just… you never told me.” 

There’s a brief silence. 

“You never wanted to go to party. Then we stayed because you thought I wanted to stay. You said yes to festival, you played pool, you talked to the rookie. You almost went to the bar when you wanted to go home.” Ilya's voice was gentle, free of judgment. 

Shane nods before slowly turning back to stare out of the window in front of them. 

“Shane, is okay.” Ilya slowly interlaces their fingers, “You’re trying.” 

“Yeah,” Shane nods once. “I can’t believe I had six tallies before we even started though.”

There’s a pause. 

“I don’t even stand a chance.” Shane lets his head fall back against the headboard dramatically, covering his face with his hands. “I’ll hit the limit in no time.” 

His tone is playful but the image of actually hitting 20 tallies, being over Ilya’s lap, makes his stomach drop a little bit.

“You will be fine, it’s not the first time you were spanked.” Ilya rocks his shoulder to bump Shane’s and smiles. “You are a brat.” 

“Actually, uh,” Shane’s eyes fall to his lap and he starts picking at a hang nail. “It is.”

“What?” Ilya tilts his head, leaning closer to catch Shane’s face.

“My parents never, uh,” He pauses briefly, feeling heat creep onto his cheeks. “That kind of punishment was never a thing in my house.” 

“Ah,” Ilya nods, leaning back again.

“Not saying I never got in trouble,” Shane adds, his expression twisting, thoughtful. “I did, just…not like that. The worst I ever got was being sent to my room. No yelling, just go to your room and think about it. That was it.”

He glances over to Ilya who is looking at him intently.

“That makes sense,” Ilya smiles. “Explains why you’re still a brat.” 

“Oh shut up.” It was Shane’s turn to bump his shoulder into Ilya’s. 

“It’s not punishment though, when we do it.” Ilya clarifies. “Just something to make you think, not to punish.”

“A motivator?” Shane offers.

“Yes. A motivator, not a punishment.” Ilya smiles softly. 

Shane can’t help the smile that falls onto his face. They drift into a silence again, and Shane can’t stop his mind from wondering. 

“Did your parents ever spank you?” Shane asks, quieter now.

“Spank? No.” Ilya replies flatly.

“Oh.” Shane looks over to him. “What did they do? As punishment?”

Ilya glances over to Shane quickly before diverting his gaze. “My mother, nothing.”

Shane silently nods. “And your dad?” 

Shane isn’t sure why he asks that. He’s almost certain he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

Ilya’s breathing slows, his eyes lock on the window. Shane stares at him as he seems frozen in place. He blinks three times in quick succession and Shane is already moving.

“You don’t have to answer that.” Shane immediately swings his leg over Ilya, settling in his lap. 

He guides Ilya’s head to rest on his shoulder and wraps his arm tightly across the other's back. Ilya snakes his arms around Shane’s waist.

“I’m okay, Shane.” Ilya whispers. 

“I’m so sorry.” Shane rakes his fingers through Ilya’s hair.

“Is okay.” 

“It’s not,” Shane says quietly, tightening his hold on him.

.

.

Shane wakes to the weight of Ilya draped over him. Ilya’s chest presses into his stomach, his head resting gently against Shane’s chest. It’s warm and heavy. Ilya’s hand curls lazily around the back of Shane’s neck, the other tangled in the sheets. Shane can feel every rise and fall of Ilya’s breathing, every small press of his weight. He stirs slightly, letting out a soft hum. Shane’s fingers brush over his back, fingertips mapping out the constellations of his moles. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Ilya’s hand tightens around Shane’s neck.

“You awake?” Shane murmurs, careful not to move too much.

“Mm,” Ilya replies, voice muffled against Shane’s chest.

He smiles faintly as Ilya squirms a little under the light trace of his fingers. Shane would do anything to spend the whole day here, pretending they don’t exist to anyone outside of each other. He wants nothing more than to lay here and feel the weight of Ilya pressed against him for hours, maybe days. 

“We should get up soon,” Shane sighs, more to himself than to Ilya.

Ilya exhales against him, something between a sigh and a reluctant laugh. “Are we really going to go to that festival?”

“We promised them we would.” 

Ilya shifts, lifting his head just enough to look at him. “You promised them we would,” he corrects. 

Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “It could be fun.” 

He isn’t sure which one of them he’s trying to convince.

“Mm.” Ilya presses a kiss just below Shane’s naval, lingering for a second before pushing himself upright. “Okay.”

Shane groans at the loss of Ilya’s weight.

By the time they’re dressed and out the door, the morning has fully settled in. The drive is quiet but not tense; windows cracked, music low. Ilya’s hand finds Shane’s thigh at every red light. The festival is closer than Shane expected, and they pull in before he has time to work himself up too much. The parking lot is already busy. Voices drift over the pavement, overlapping and indistinct. Ilya cuts the engine and sits there for a beat longer than necessary. 

“Ready?”

Shane nods, opening the door.

The festival is already crowded by the time they spot their friends. 

“There,” Ilya says, nodding ahead.

Shane lets out a slow breath when he sees them. Familiar faces help. He can do familiar.

Zane is impossible to miss, standing near the edge of one of the main paths, sunglasses perched on his head like they might fall off at any second. Hayden and Jackie are beside him. Jackie is bouncing Amber on her hip while Hayden keeps an eye on Arthur and the twins, who are darting around in opposite directions.

Wyatt, Harris, and Troy are clustered a few steps away, bickering loudly about something Shane can’t quite make out over the noise.

“Hey!” Zane calls when he spots them, lifting a hand. “Look who finally showed up.”

“Traffic,” Shane lies easily, smiling as Zane pulls him into a quick, crushing hug.

Troy grins when he sees them. “Thought you were gonna bail.”

“On you? Never,” Shane says, and it comes out smoother than he expects.

Harris snorts. “That’s debatable.”

Hayden’s twins run past Shane to chase after a bubble floating just out of reach. Arthur clings to Hayden’s leg, looking like he wants to join them, while little Amber waves at Ilya with a gummy grin from Jackie’s hip.

Ilya steps in beside Shane, slinging an arm loosely around his shoulders. “He tried,” he says solemnly. “I dragged him.”

Shane elbows him, laughing despite himself.

Jackie beams. “I’m just impressed you’re both here before noon.” She winks knowingly in Shane’s direction. 

“Barely,” Ilya says dramatically, rolling his eyes. “Shane tried on six different outfits.”

“It was three.”

“Wow. You’re such a diva now, Hollander.” Hayden smirks. 

They fall into easy conversation; complaints about parking, one of the kids asking loudly for lemonade, Troy announcing he’s already on his third cup and questioning his life choices. The noise presses in, but it’s still manageable, more of a hum than a roar.

Shane nods along, answers when spoken to, even laughs when Wyatt reenacts something ridiculous from last year. Ilya stays close, thumb brushing lightly at Shane’s hip.

For a moment, Shane thinks: I can do this.

Ilya and Shane interlock hands as they begin to weave through the festival crowds. They quickly reach a brightly colored face-painting booth, and the kids boom with excitement. Emma and Ruby run to sit down first. They hold each other’s hands as the painters carefully color their cheeks with little flowers. Arthur follows them and squints seriously as he sits for a tiny dinosaur on his cheek. Amber claps her hands, bouncing with excitement, waiting for her turn. 

Even the adults aren’t spared. Zane plops into the chair with a grin, pretending to be serious, and the painter quickly slaps a rainbow on his face. The group bursts into laughter. Wyatt, Harris, and Troy all follow suit. They all tease each other as they get small, silly designs. A star, a lightning bolt, a balloon; each one earning laughs from the group.

“Hey Hollander!” Zane calls out, grinning. “You’re not getting face paint?” 

Shane scoffs and shakes his head in response. 

“Come on, do it!” Wyatt says from where he was admiring his star in the mirror. 

Hayden chuckles, nudging Shane. “Yeah, what are you afraid of? It’s just a little paint. Have fun!”

Shane opens his mouth to protest, but the laughter and expectant looks freeze him. He fumbles forward. 

“Uh… okay,” he mutters finally, sinking into the chair.

He doesn’t dare look over to where he left Ilya, too nervous to see the look of disappointment. 

The painter raises an eyebrow. “Just a small one?”

“Please,” Shane says quickly.

The moment the brush touches his skin, Shane recoils. It’s slick, cold, and unbearably wrong. His stomach twists, every nerve on edge, and all he wants is to wipe it off immediately. He clenches his jaw and presses his palms to his thighs, forcing himself to stay still, telling his body to just endure.

By the time the painter is done, Shane’s cheek sports a bright pink butterfly, complete with glitter.

“Great,” He grimaces into the mirror. “Thanks.”

Hayden slaps him on the shoulder. “You look awesome! Totally festival vibes! Your turn Rozanov?”

“Not a chance,” Ilya calls back flatly. 

Shane drifts back over to him, cheeks hot and ears burning. 

“Very pretty,” Ilya smirks. 

“Shut up.” 

Ilya tilts his head, catching Shane’s gaze just enough, and whispers, “One.”

Shane’s chest tightens. His shoulders slump slightly, as if the weight of that single tally presses down on him. He exhales through his nose, “I know.” 

He hates how small it makes him feel, the way his stomach knots and heat creeps up his neck. 

One tally. Already.

He slides his hand back into Ilya’s as the group starts walking again. The kids bounce ahead, pointing at every stall and shouting over the music. Emma and Ruby tug each other toward a cotton candy stand while Hayden whines for a pretzel.

“I’m starving,” Hayden groans, everyone pauses walking as he scans the festival map like it’s a military operation. “Who knows what’s good around here?”

“Let’s get tacos!" Wyatt pipes up, as if the decision is obvious.

“No, Pizza.” Zane retorts, already tugging out his wallet.

“Ice cream!” The twins bellow.

“Come on, we need to move.” Jackie interjects, scooping up Amber as a crowd starts to gather near them.

Shane and Ilya linger slightly behind the group.  Shane’s shoulders tense as he watches the chaos swirl around them. Everyone is talking over each other, pointing and bickering.  

“If Rozanov and Hollander would get over here maybe they could help us decide,” Troy gripes.

Shane has been listening to all of the opinions and feels the familiar pull to just agree with whatever anyone says. He glances at Ilya, whose calm gaze meets his, and takes a breath.

“Let’s go to the taco stand,” Shane says, voice firm. “It’s the quickest, and everyone can get something they want.”

A beat of silence. Then Wyatt nods, Hayden grumbles but shrugs, and Zane laughs, “Finally, someone is making a call.” 

Jackie smiles, patting Shane on the shoulder, before steering the children towards the taco stand. Ilya gives his hand a gentle squeeze, and Shane feels a little spark of pride bloom in his chest. 

They navigate through the crowd and find a table near a shaded area. Shane orders tacos for him and Ilya, keeping a careful eye on the kids while juggling their plates. For a moment, it feels like a victory. Not because anyone praised him, but because he actually did something for himself without overthinking. He presses a kiss on the top of Ilya’s head before settling down next to him.

The festival crowd grows thicker with each passing minute. Music from nearby performers, laughter from the kids, chatter from food stands, and the low hum of people drifting past start to swirl together. Shane starts to feel his chest tighten. He tries to focus on the tacos, taking careful bites, but each shout or cheer makes his heart jump a little. A group of people hover near their table. Whispers rise as they continuously glance over at the hockey players.

“Uh oh,” Ilya mutters, noticing the crowd at the same time as Shane.

All it takes is one person in the group to gain confidence and suddenly they’re nearly swarmed. 

“Hey, are you Shane Hollander?” 

“Can we get a photo?” 

“Sign this, please?”

Shane freezes, mind blank. His head spins and in an instinct to attempt to get the crowd to dissipate he grabs the pen and begins signing things. Shane moves rapidly, taking quick pictures and signing random objects. He starts to sweat and each time he tries to sit back down he’s asked for something else. 

“Guys, relax.” He says breathless. 

Ilya stays seated. When someone attempts to have him sign their notebook Ilya simply shakes his head and motions to his food in front of him.

“Woah!” Hayden says, returning from the bathroom. “You all need to take this somewhere else. My kids are over here.” His voice is sharp, and the crowd begins to disperse.

Shane flops back into his seat, pushing his food aside so he can rest his forehead on the table.

“Shane, what was that?” Hayden looks at him, confused.

“I dunno,” he mutters into the table.

“Why didn’t you tell them no? You were eating?”

“I dunno, Hayd,” Shane groans.

“You need a backbone, dude,” Hayden says, slapping him on the back as he walks by.

Shane can feel the weight of Ilya’s gaze on him.

“Two,” Ilya murmurs quietly.

Shane doesn’t lift his head from the table. “Yep,” he mutters.

The moment Shane stands from the table, the noise hits him in waves. Music from a nearby stage thumps against his chest, the chatter of the festival and laughter from his friends all swirl together. The heat presses down on him like a weight. The colors of the tents and decorations blur, every shout sharper than the last. He feels like the edges of the world are vibrating around him.

Ilya’s hand is steady in his, grounding him the best it can, but Shane can feel the panic bubbling under his ribs. His breaths come quick, shallow. His stomach twists. Every motion of the crowd, every laugh, every shout, it’s too much. He sways slightly as he tries to keep moving forward.

“Look, a magic show!” one of his friends calls from a few steps ahead. Shane barely registers the words, never mind who said them. The crowd parts around a small stage, and suddenly there are more people than he can track. The magician flourishes his deck and gestures broadly, locking eyes on Shane. 

“You, sir, with the pink butterfly!”

Shane freezes, heart hammering. He doesn’t even hear the volunteer question fully; all he registers are expectant faces and laughter from his friends.

Ilya steps forward, gently trying to intercept Shane. “No, you don’t-”

“I’ll go,” Shane mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, but the panic in his chest pushes him forward.

Ilya tries again, voice firmer. “Let me-”

“Come on, Hollander, it’ll be fun!” Wyatt calls. 

“Yeah, do it!” Zane laughs. “Don’t chicken out now!”

Ilya’s hand rests on Shane’s arm, hesitating, trying to stop him as he steps forward. “Shane, I can go. Let me.” 

His friends are oblivious to Shane’s spiraling panic, laughing and nudging him forward. Shane swallows hard, legs trembling as he walks toward the stage.

The magician guides him to the center, handing him a deck of cards. Shane’s knees feel weak, his head spinning. The sounds around him: the cheering, the music, the street noises, all converge into a single, overwhelming wave. His heart races, and he fights the urge to curl into himself.

“Pick a card, any card,” the magician says, gestures exaggerated. Shane nods, fumbling with the deck. He can barely focus; every movement is slow, dizzying. The audience leans in, laughing and encouraging him. He feels exposed, every eye on him magnifying his panic. His breath heaves, vision buzzes. 

When the trick ends, everyone claps and cheers and Shane stumbles away from the stage. Ilya pushes forward and meets Shane by the time he reaches the bottom step. He wraps his hand around Shane’s wrist immediately, pulling him gently but firmly away from the crowd. Shane sucks in a shaky breath, panic finally bubbling over. His vision blurs and his head fucking pounds. 

“Ilya,” his voice borders a sob. 

“I’m here. We’re going somewhere quiet. Just breathe.”

Shane scrunches his eyes tight and lets Ilya guide him. Ilya steers Shane toward a quieter corner, away from the festival’s center. The chatter and music fade slightly, but Shane’s chest still feels like it’s being crushed. Every inhale feels shallow, every sound magnified.

“Sit,” Ilya instructs softly, helping Shane lower himself onto a bench. He crouches in front of him, keeping his eyes level with Shane’s, hands resting gently on Shane’s knees. “Breathe.” 

Shane sways slightly, gripping the edge of the bench, head bowed. “I-I can’t.” he murmurs, voice trembling.

Ilya’s hands slide to cup Shane’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Shh, look at me,” he whispers, voice calm but firm. “Breathe with me. In… and out… slow.”

Shane tries, but the spinning in his head only intensifies. His hands tremble in his lap, stomach twisting. Ilya’s presence is the only anchor he can grasp. Ilya quickly places Shane’s hands on his shoulders and emphasizes the up and down motion as he encourages Shane to keep trying slow breaths with him. Shane grips Ilya’s shoulders tightly, following the best he can.

“You are safe,” Ilya continues, leaning close enough to brush Shane’s hair back from his forehead. “It’s okay. You are with me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Shane’s shoulders shake as he leans into him, searching for control. But his breath remains shallow, his head still spinning. Colors and sounds blur, sharp and bright, overwhelming.

“Shane, look at me.” 

The words barely register. Shane’s vision feels hazy, his senses scattered. Ilya taps the side of Shane’s face gently, guiding him back.

“Shane,” Ilya says again, voice firm and unwavering, “We are leaving. Now.”

He stands, wrapping a hand around Shane’s wrist again and pulling him gently but decisively to his feet.

Shane shakes his head, panic flaring again. “What? N-no! We have to stay!”

Ilya pulls him forwards towards the exit. “No, you can’t stay like this. You’re overwhelmed.”

“Ilya,” Shane protests, voice cracking.

Ilya stops abruptly, turning to look at him, face stern. “We’re leaving.” 

“Okay.” Shane squeaks and lets himself be pulled to the parking lot.

By the time they reach the car, Shane’s breaths are still uneven. He collapses into the seat, scrunching his eyes tightly, shaking his head slightly as if that would shake the panic from him.

“Breathe,” Ilya murmurs, rubbing his hand over Shane’s thigh.

They sit in silence until Shane’s heart rate finally starts to even out.

“I really thought I could do it,” he croaks.

“I know,” Ilya says softly. “Let’s go home.”

The drive home is quiet. Shane leans against the window, still shaky, fingers curled loosely around Ilya’s hand where it rests on his knee. Ilya’s thumb stroking in slow, soothing circles on his skin. By the time they pull into their driveway, Shane’s shoulders slump with exhaustion, and his chest finally begins to unclench. Inside, Ilya moves quietly around the house, soft and deliberate.

“Sit,” he murmurs, guiding Shane to the couch. 

Shane drops onto it gratefully, feeling the heat and tension in his body slowly ebb. Ilya disappears briefly and returns with a damp, warm cloth. He kneels in front of Shane and begins gently wiping at the edges of the glittered pink butterfly on his cheek. The movement is soft, barely applying any pressure to Shane’s skin. Shane closes his eyes, letting out a slow breath.

“Is too bad,” Ilya tuts softly. “Butterfly was cute on you.”

Shane laughs through his nose. When finished, Ilya leans forward to press a gentle kiss on Shane's lips, before getting up and disappearing again. He reappears fairly quickly with a bowl in his hand.  

“Here,” Ilya says softly, handing Shane a small bowl of sliced fruit. “Eat a little. No rush.” 

“Thanks.” Shane takes it, managing a small, tired smile. Every movement feels heavier than usual, every sound still slightly too sharp, but Ilya’s presence is a calming weight.

Ilya settles on the couch beside him. Shane immediately folds in to lean against him and Ilya’s arm drapes over Shane’s shoulder. He rubs slow, steady circles along his back. Shane lets out a soft hum, leaning into Ilya’s touch. The exhaustion from the panic attack pulls at him, and before long, his eyes begin to droop. Ilya gently takes the bowl from Shane’s hand. 

“Ilya,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

“I’m here,” Ilya whispers back. “Go on. Rest.”

.

.

Shane stirs awake to the soft hum of the house. His head feels heavy, but his muscles no longer tense. He blinks a few times, groaning softly, and notices the evening light slanting through the curtains. His brain slowly becomes more awake, feeling the gentle weight of Ilya’s arm stretched across his shoulders. His head still rests against Ilya’s chest. He loves waking up tangled with Ilya, it makes the world feel quiet.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, nuzzling slightly, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“You awake?” Ilya’s voice is low, soothing.

“Mhm,”  Shane stretches slowly, still enjoying the closeness. “What time is it?” 

“Six.” 

“Fuck, I gotta call my mom.” He rubs his eyes and stretches his limbs. “Told her I would after the festival.”

“Okay.”

He swings his legs off the couch, rubbing at his face. “I’ll be real quick,” he mutters, fumbling for his phone.

“No rush,” Ilya smiles softly.

The conversation is short and uneventful, Shane’s voice groggy, almost dreamlike. When he hangs up, he drifts back toward Ilya in the living room, smiling faintly. 

“So… what do you want for dinner?” he asks, voice still soft, a little sleepy.

Ilya glances up at him, “Pasta?”

“Okay.”

Shane moves toward the kitchen to start cooking, feeling more alert now. 

“I’m getting a water, you want one?” He calls out to Ilya.

“No thanks.” He can hear Ilya begin walking towards the kitchen.

He grabs the handle to the fridge and then freezes mid step. Four fresh black tallies stand out starkly against the paper. His stomach twists and he quickly counts them.

Thirteen.

He moves away from the fridge and melts onto the counter. His head rests in his folded arms against the cold surface. 

“Fuck,” He groans against the countertop.

He hears Ilya walk up behind him, resting a hand lightly on Shane’s lower back. 

“Hey,” he says softly, “You were overwhelmed.” Ilya’s voice, calm and steady. “It was too much, anyone would have struggled.”

Shane can’t bring himself to respond. He starts to feel shame and embarrassment creep into his core again. He’s never going to be able to do this. Tears begin to bubble in his eyes; it burns as he tries to force them back down. He takes a breath to steady himself but his ribcage shakes as the air hits his lungs. 

“Hey, come here.” Ilya pulls Shane from the counter and engulfs him in a hug. 

Shane buries his face in Ilya’s neck so he doesn’t have to acknowledge the tears that escape him. He bunches Ilya’s shirt in his hands. 

“You’re trying, Shane.” Ilya rocks them gently as he soothes a hand down Shane’s back. 

“I’m failing.” Shane grits out.

“No.” Ilya pulls back to look at him, gripping his chin in his hand when Shane tries to turn his head. “You’re not.” 

Shane can feel his bottom lip tremble. 

“You are trying, and it’s hard to change. You’re trying. And that’s so good. You understand?” Ilya says firmly. 

Shane nods weakly.

“Say it.” 

“I understand,”  Shane squeaks. 

Ilya brushes away the fresh tears that land on Shane’s cheek and pulls him into another crushing hug.

“I am so proud of you.” Ilya whispers.

The words lodge somewhere deep, much more painful than they are comforting. 

Proud. 

Shane squeezes his eyes shut, like he can physically shut the thought out, but it’s already there; loud and insistent. Proud of what? Of him falling apart in public? Of him folding the second someone laughs and points? Of thirteen black lines proving, in permanent marker, that he can’t say no when it matters?

He would do anything to shut his brain up, but it keeps rifling through the files of his mistakes. Every time he’s agreed because disappointing someone felt worse than hurting himself. Every time Ilya has had to step in and pull him out by the wrist because Shane couldn’t, wouldn’t, save himself.

Yet Ilya’s still proud, and somehow that makes the shame sharper. Because it means Shane didn’t just fail himself, he failed with witnesses. Failed while being loved. Failed while being handled gently.

If Ilya can be proud of this, then how bad must Shane really be? So bad that this is what counts as progress?

His chest tightens as the familiar voice in his head spits: You’re broken. You’re exhausting. You’re something that needs charts and rules and monitoring because you can’t be trusted to function normally.

He stays very still in Ilya’s arms, terrified that if he moves, the spiral will tip him right back into full blown panic. His hands clutch tighter at Ilya’s shirt, not because he wants comfort, he doesn’t deserve it, but because he’s afraid of what happens if he lets go.

“I don’t want you to be proud of this,” Shane mutters finally, voice muffled and raw. “I wanna be better.” 

“And you will,” Ilya says without hesitation, like it isn’t a hope but a fact. He presses a gentle kiss into Shane’s hair, lingering. “But better can’t happen all at once. And it can’t happen by being cruel to yourself.”

The words land too close to the thoughts Shane had just been trying to swallow. For a split second, he feels exposed, like Ilya can hear the spiral he hasn’t voiced. The quiet, vicious words he’s been keeping in his own head. It's not the first time Shane’s felt Ilya could read his mind, but today it hits him with the strange vulnerability of being seen so clearly it almost hurts.

“It feels like I’m just… proving it,” he admits. “That I can’t do this.” Shane exhales shakily.

“No,” he says quietly. “You are proving that you notice it, that you want to stop.”

Shane swallows hard.

“You are letting me help you, yes?” Ilya pulls back to look at him again. 

Shane nods, his words feeling lost in his throat. 

“That means you are trying, and trying is not failure.” Ilya puts his hands on his shoulders and squeezes. “And needing help is not failure.” 

Shane’s vision blurs with tears again, eyes burning but no longer spilling over. He nods once, small and reluctant.

“Today was loud, crowded. Too many people asking things from you,” Ilya continues, steady and calm. “You reached your limit. That’s not failure. That is information.”

Shane huffs out a weak, humorless breath. “Information.”

“Information,” Ilya repeats. “On how to focus on making Shane happy.” He gently presses his finger to Shane’s chest. 

Shane smiles gently, looking down at where Ilya’s finger meets his heart.

“Please be kind to yourself, Shane.” Ilya’s voice is so quiet it almost doesn’t register that he even spoke.

Shane drags his eyes back up to Ilya’s face, and he would sever his own limbs to wipe the pained look away. 

“Okay,” he whispers.

Ilya pulls him into a hug again. “Good. Now we make dinner, we eat, and we rest.”

And for the first time since the festival, Shane believes he might actually survive the evening. Ilya doesn’t let go of him right away. They stand there for a moment longer, pressed together in the quiet of the kitchen. Shane exhales and nods once.

“Okay,” he says again, a little steadier this time.

Ilya releases him slowly, like he’s worried Shane might shatter if he moves too fast. He reaches past Shane to grab a pot from the cabinet, setting it on the stove.

“What kind of pasta?” Ilya asks, casual on purpose.

Shane swipes at his face with the heel of his hand, scrubbing away the last of the tears.

“Uh, Alfredo?” he says hoarsely. 

Ilya smiles faintly, like that’s exactly the right answer. “Perfect.”

Shane fills the pot with water and puts it back on the stove, hands still a little unsteady. Ilya stays close, passing him the salt, bumping their hips together lightly when Shane forgets where he set the spoon. They move around each other in quiet coordination, the way they always do. No rush. The normalcy makes Shane feel so much lighter.

By the time the water starts to boil, Shane’s breathing has evened out completely. The knot in his chest hasn’t disappeared, but it’s loosened enough that he can exist around it.

They eat at the counter, like always, their knees brushing together. Shane doesn’t talk much, but he eats. Ilya watches him without comment, refilling his water, nudging the bowl closer when Shane starts to get lost in his mind again. When Shane finally leans back in his chair, full and exhausted, Ilya reaches out and laces their fingers together.

“Better?”

“Much,” Shane says, a small smile folding on his face. “Thank you.”

Ilya hums in response and presses a kiss to his lips. He stands, grabbing Shane’s bowl, and turns towards the sink. 

Shane catches his wrist. “I’ll clean up. You go shower,” he says, taking the bowl from his hands. 

“You sure?” Ilya’s brows knit gently together.

“Positive,” Shane kisses him again. “Go.”

The shower starts a few minutes later, the steady rush of water filling the house. Shane can hear it faintly over the clink of dishes as he stands at the sink, hands submerged in warm, soapy water. He focuses on the routine of it. Rinse, dry, stack. He lets his mind stay small on purpose. The edge of the spiral still hums in the background, but it’s quieter now. Ilya is right, he’s trying. That has to count for something. He’s drying the last plate when there’s a knock at the door. Shane stills, unsure if he heard right. No one ever knocks, everyone just texts.

Another knock, firmer this time.

He frowns, wiping his hands on a towel and heads for the door. When he pulls the door open and sees Hayden standing there, slightly folded in on himself, he can’t help the worry that pulses through him.

“Hey,” Hayden says, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, expression uncharacteristically hesitant. 

“You okay?” Shane questions immediately. 

“Yeah, I was just driving by on my way back from the gym and um,” he cuts himself off. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course.” Shane steps aside automatically.

Hayden slips inside, glancing around like he’s checking for damage. 

“Sorry to drop by unannounced. I, uh… hope this is okay.”

“It’s no problem dude,” Shane replies cautiously, eyes scanning Hayden up and down as if he would find out what was wrong by reading it on his clothes. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, I was driving home and just,” He takes a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck. “I couldn’t stop thinking about earlier.”

“Earlier?”

“Your panic attack at the festival.” 

“Oh,” Shane isn’t sure how else to respond.

“I didn’t realize how bad it was, man. I’m really sorry.” Hayden’s voice is dripping with sincerity.

Shane suddenly becomes acutely aware of his hands, unsure of where to put them. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Rozanov basically had to carry you away,” Hayden snorts softly. 

That earns a weak huff from Shane. He finds himself drifting back into the kitchen, desperately needing to find something for his hands to do. He settles on putting the dishes away. Hayden follows behind him leaning back against the counter while Shane hovers near the sink.

“I should’ve picked up on it sooner,” Hayden continues, quieter now. “I thought you were just, y’know, being Shane. I didn’t realize you were panicking until Rozanov tried to take your place, then you were halfway to the stage.”

Shane shrugs, stacking a plate a little too carefully. “Yeah, well. Apparently I have a very convincing ‘I’m fine’ face.”

Hayden snorts, “You do. That’s kinda the problem.”

Shane glances over his shoulder, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“I mean it,” Hayden says quickly, pushing off the counter. “You’re good at hiding when things suck. And I’m supposed to be the guy,” He cuts himself off, eyes flashing to a framed photo of Shane and Ilya on the wall. “One of the guys who notices that.”

Shane swallows and turns back to the cabinet, opening it even though it’s already full. He adjusts a mug that doesn’t need adjusting. 

“You’re not responsible for my brain, Hayd.”

He hopes his voice doesn’t show how much he needs this conversation to be over. He is done with being placed under a microscope today. 

“I know,” Hayden says weakly. “But I’m your friend.”

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose. He finally turns away from the cabinet, taking two steps forwards, placing himself in front of Hayden.

 “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I kinda did,” Hayden insists. “I egged it on. The face paint, the magic thing at first.” He winces dramatically. “In hindsight, really bad call.”

Shane huffs a laugh despite himself. “Yeah, well. You didn’t force me up there.”

“You don’t need someone to force you. You just… don’t like disappointing people.”

Shane freezes for half a second, suddenly having to swallow the excess spit that's gathered in his mouth. 

“I disappoint people all the time.” He tries to make it land as a joke. And given the way Hayden's face softens, clearly it doesn’t.

“No you don't,” Hayden says gently “But you feel like you do, that’s the difference.”

Silence settles, the hum of the shower filling the air between them. Shane rests his hands on the counter by Hayden, shoulders slumping a fraction.

“It was so bad,” Shane admits quietly. 

“I know,” Hayden says immediately. “That’s why I wanted to stop by. Not to make it a thing. Just to say I noticed, and I’m sorry I didn’t sooner.”

Shane nods, eyes fixed on the counter. “Thanks.”

Hayden bumps his shoulder lightly with his own. “Next time, we bail earlier. We fake food poisoning, or I take the fall and tell everyone I’m cranky and we leave.”

That pulls a real laugh out of Shane. “You’re always cranky.”

“Exactly. Built-in excuse.”

Shane shakes his head, smiling faintly. “You didn’t have to come by.”

“I know,” Hayden says. “I wanted to.”

There’s a beat, then Hayden snorts incredulously. “Also, as much as it pains me to say this.”

Shane hums, already bracing. “Oh no.”

“Rozanov is an asshole,” Hayden says plainly.

Shane laughs under his breath. “Mhm.”

“But,” Hayden continues, holding up a finger and then pointing it to Shane, “not to you.”

That makes Shane pause. He glances over at Hayden, who’s leaning back against the counter, expression surprisingly earnest.

“I noticed it today,” Hayden says. “The way he was watching you. Hovering without hovering. Letting you do your thing but ready to step in the second you need it.”

Shane swallows, unsure what to do with his hands again. He slowly steps back and leans against the wall across from Hayden, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“He tried to take your place,” Hayden adds. “On stage. Didn’t even hesitate. He was just gonna take the rap for you.”

Shane nods slowly. “He does that.”

“Yeah,” Hayden says. “And he didn’t make it a big deal either. Didn’t embarrass you, just tried to fix it.”

Shane’s mouth tilts, unshakable fondness crossing his face. “He’s good to me.”

Hayden clicks his tongue, mock-annoyed. “Don’t expect me to ever say it again.”

Shane laughs quietly, shaking his head.

“I still don’t like him,” Hayden adds. “For the record.”

“Of course not.”

“But,” Hayden says, more serious now, “I’m glad you have someone who would do that for you.”

Shane’s chest swells. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

Hayden slightly pushes off the counter again. “So, if he ever hurts you, I will absolutely fight him.”

Shane snorts. “You’d lose.”

“Worth it,” Hayden smiles. 

Hayden’s eyes trail across the kitchen, settling on something on the wall beside Shane.

“Okay, seriously, where did you even get those?” He gestures to a string of lights on a shelf of little trinkets Shane recently arranged. “Are those fairy lights?”

Shane scrunches his face with disbelief. “They’re not ‘fairy lights,’ they’re… well-curated ambient mood lights. It adds personality.”

Hayden chuckles, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Curated ambient mood lights, got it. And you collect trinkets now? You’re officially a Pinterest board.”

“They’re not trinkets, they’re momentous,” Shane defends. “They’re from all the places me and Ilya have been together.”

“Right, and they needed the fairy lights.”

Shane drops his head in defeat, laughing despite himself. “The ambient lighting was essential, yes.”

Hayden’s eyes continue to scan the kitchen, clearly searching for something else to poke fun at.

A silence falls between them.

“What, you can’t find anything else to make fun of?” Shane laughs, looking up at him. 

Hayden’s eyebrows are slightly pulled together, a small frown forming as his gaze lingers somewhere behind Shane. He tilts his head, seemingly confused.

“What?” Shane follows his line of sight.

And that’s when he sees it. Right in the middle of the fridge: The chart.

“Oh my god,” Shane’s face flushes instantly.

“What’s-”

“It’s nothing!” he blurts, voice high and tight. “Stop looking at it!”

He whips back to Hayden, willing him to magically become illiterate. Hayden blinks slowly, realization dawning, tilting his head deeper and raises an eyebrow. “Oh.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Shane mutters, crashing his torso over the counter, hiding his face in his arms for the second time today. His ears burn, as mortification settles in his gut. How could he have forgotten about the fucking chart? He led Hayden right into the kitchen. Fucking idiot.

“Is that-”

“It’s- It’s,” Shane stammers. “It’s stupid. I- don’t look at it.”

“I mean,” Hayden says carefully. “It’s on the fridge, man.”

“I didn’t put it there!” Shane yells against the counter, stomach twisting.

“Is this… like a… kink thing?” Hayden asks, half-serious, half-joking.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shane groans, clenching his teeth and burying his face deeper into his arms, disgustingly nauseated. “No. It’s not- We’re not… into it. I don’t think. I don’t know.”

The more Shane talks, the more he wishes they’d both shut up. He’d do anything to melt into the floor and disappear.

“You don’t know?”

“This is the first time,” Shane sighs, deflated. “So yeah. I don’t know.”

There’s a beat.

“Well, maybe Rozanov can slap the stupid out of you,” Hayden laughs.

Shane snorts, despite himself. “I’m begging you to shut up.”

Hayden’s tone softens. “Hey dude, don’t be embarrassed. Seriously. Everyone’s got their shit. You’re allowed to be human, even if it comes with …charts and shit.”

“Charts and shit,” Shane scoffs, voice cracking.

Hayden laughs again, stepping closer and giving Shane’s back a reassuring pat that shifts into a gentle rub. “Shane, everyone’s just trying to make it through. If this helps you, then it helps you.”

Shane exhales heavily, barely peeking through his arms at Hayden. “I hate that you saw it.”

“I hate that you were panicking earlier,” Hayden shoots back. “So I think we’re even.”

He claps his hands lightly. “Alright, dude. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m okay,” Shane mutters, still hiding his face.

Hayden goes to leave, then pauses. “I take it you’re not gonna look at me right now?”

“If I do, I’ll die.”

A breathy laugh leaves Hayden's throat. “Alright, man. It was good to see you. You still coming to the twins’ party next week?”

“Yep.”

“Great.” Hayden turns toward the door, then glances back at Shane. “Oh, and Shane?”

“Mhm?” Shane still doesn’t lift his head.

“You better be careful,” he says lightly, giving Shane’s ass a quick playful smack. “You’re getting close.”

“I know,” Shane groans.

Hayden seemingly can’t help but laugh as he makes his way to the door. 

“Bye.” Hayden calls loudly through the house before closing the door behind him.

“Hayden was here?” 

Shane hears Ilya’s footsteps slap into the kitchen. 

“What happened?” Ilya asks, pausing when he sees Shane.

Shane lifts one arm, pointing vaguely towards the chart, then drops it immediately back to the counter.

“Ah,” Ilya says softly.

“I’m gonna die,” Shane groans dramatically. “I can never look at him again.”

“Shane, is fine. He doesn’t even care.”

“But he knows.” Shane turns toward Ilya. “Next time, it goes in our bedroom. Got it?”

Ilya throws his hands up. “Got it.”

.

.

The next two days pass in a soft blur. Shane really does try to think twice and not just say yes to everything, but it's so ingrained in him it feels impossible to not have some slip through the cracks.

He agrees to proofread a long text for Zane after a meeting with their coach, even though his head aches and his eyes are tired. 

Fourteen.

At lunch with Ilya and his mom, she orders for him at the restaurant, getting what she thinks he wants. He just eats it, not telling her he wants something different.

Fifteen.

He lets Hayden borrow his headphones during their workout when he asked, despite hating working out without them.

Sixteen.

He carries in all the groceries despite his arms being sore because Ilya seemed busy and he didn’t want to bother him. 

Seventeen.

The blur of the days speed through Shane’s head as he finally flops down onto the couch. Ilya made plans to meet Svetlana for dinner tonight so Shane is home alone. And truthfully, he's basking in the silence. The only noise filling the house is the soft hum of a lightbulb that’s mere days away from going out. He sinks onto the couch, rubbing at his temples, letting his mind rest for a minute.

His phone buzzes in his hand, and he sighs glancing at the screen.

Incoming call from Mom.

Great. 

“Hi, Mom,” Shane says, voice low.

“Hi honey! Did you see that email I forwarded to you?” she replies, cheerful.

Shane pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs his eyes. “No, what email?”

“For the Calvin Klein ad? I mentioned it at lunch, but we got distracted,” she explains. “I need to let them know if we’re doing it.”

Shane groans softly, sinking further into the couch. “I dunno. I’m not a huge fan of being in my underwear in front of a ton of cameras. Or on billboards in Times Square.”

“Oh, come on, Shane,” she says, a hint of pleading in her tone. “It’s good exposure. And Ilya will be doing it too, right?”

Images of him accidentally getting hard in front of dozens of people at the sight of Ilya all oiled up in his underwear flash in his mind. He runs his hand down his face. 

Shane exhales shakily. “Yeah… I think that makes it worse.”

“People love you guys together. Seriously, it’ll be fun, and it’s a big opportunity,” she says, almost bouncing in her excitement.

Say no.

He lets out a quiet, defeated sigh, staring at the cushions. “Okay… fine.”

“Okay?” she says, surprised.

“Yeah, okay. Sure,” Shane mutters, voice trailing off. He isn’t arguing anymore; he’s too tired, too drained from the last few days.

“Are you sure, honey?” she presses gently.

Realistically, he should take the out she gives him. But it only annoys him more. What does she want from him? He said no, and she insisted. He said yes, and she questions if he’s sure. What the fuck was he supposed to say then?

“I said yes,” he replies, rubbing his temple again. “It’s fine.”

“Alright,” she says, relief clear in her voice. “Perfect! It’s late next month, so we’ve got time to prepare.”

“Mhm,” Shane murmurs, not even bothering to sit up.

“This is going to be fantastic. I just had to get that sorted out. Okay, I have to go, but I love you so much,” she says warmly. 

“I love you too,” Shane whispers back.

“And tell Ilya I love him too,” she adds.

“Okay, I will.” Shane says, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Bye!” 

Shane sets the phone down and lets out a long, shaky sigh, all the air in his lungs escaping. He should have said no. He could have said no. And if it had been another day, or even earlier today, he would have said no. But he was just too tired, too drained, and not in the mood to argue or hear his mom’s lecture about the “importance of exposure.”

Defeated, he drags himself off the couch and shuffles into the kitchen. He sighs again as he picks up the marker from the counter, pops off the cap, and stares at the chart. He doesn’t want to do this, but he doesn’t want to pose in his underwear either. And yet… he said yes anyway.

Realistically Ilya will never know this happened today if he doesn’t tell him, and Shane would never have to mark it on the chart.

He flicks a tally onto the chart.

Eighteen. 

Shane leans back against the counter, letting the weight press into him. Fuck.

The front door clicks open a little after nine. Shane hears keys drop into the bowl, the familiar scuff of sneakers being kicked off.

“Hey,” Ilya calls, voice easy.

“Hi,” Shane replies from the kitchen. He’s sitting at the counter, pretending to scroll on his phone even though he hasn’t absorbed a single word.

Ilya appears in the doorway a second later, jacket shrugged off, hair slightly damp from the rain. He smiles fully at the sight of Shane, closing the gap between them to press a gentle kiss to his lips. There’s a lingering taste of beer.

“How was dinner?” Shane asks.

“Good,” Ilya says, heading for the fridge. “She yelled at me about not calling enough. We ordered too much food. The usual.” He pauses. “She sent you leftovers.”

“Of course she did.”

“She asked about you,” Ilya adds, grabbing a water. “Said you seemed tired lately.”

Shane huffs. “I am tired lately.”

Ilya smiles faintly, then closes the fridge and leans back against the wall across from Shane. “How was your day?”

“Fine,” Shane says a little too quickly. “Normal.”

It’s technically true. It was normal.

Ilya studies him for a second. “Okay.”

There’s a small, ordinary silence between them. The good kind. The kind that usually makes Shane’s shoulders relax. This time, it doesn’t.

“What did you do today?” Ilya asks finally, twisting the cap off the water bottle.

“Not much. Did some stuff around the house. Finally cleaned out the fridge.”

“I saw,” Ilya smiles. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Shane replies, unable to stop himself from smiling back.

Another silence settles in. Shane smacks his phone lightly against his palm. Once. Twice.

Fuck it.

“I, uh, put a tally on the chart,” Shane says, trying to keep it casual, like it’s no big deal. But the words come out fast, like if he slows down they’ll get stuck.

“Yeah?” Ilya asks evenly, glancing over at the fridge. “What for?”

Shane exhales through his nose. “My mom called. She asked me about the Calvin Klein ad. The one she mentioned at lunch the other day?”

“Mhm.” Ilya’s expression doesn’t change. He takes a sip of water.

“I said yes,” Shane continues, forcing his tone to stay light, conversational. Like this isn’t crawling under his skin. “Even though I didn’t really want to. I was just tired and didn’t feel like arguing. So…” He shrugs. “I marked it.”

There’s a beat.

“Okay.”

Shane blinks. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Ilya replies simply, setting his water bottle down. “That makes sense.”

“Oh.” Shane hadn’t realized he was bracing for something until now. “It does?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, shrugging. “You didn’t want to do it. You said yes anyway. That’s what chart is for.”

Shane lets out a slow breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I thought maybe you’d be… I don’t know. Annoyed?”

“Why would I be annoyed?” Ilya’s brows knit together.

“I don’t know,” Shane admits. “Because it’s your ad too. And I didn’t talk to you first. Or because-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“Because?” Ilya prompts.

“Or because I didn’t put my foot down,” Shane says quietly. “And gave in just because I was tired.”

Because you’d be disappointed in me.

“It’s okay to just be tired sometimes,” Ilya says. He steps closer, rubbing his hands slowly up and down Shane’s arms.

Another quiet moment settles in. This one does loosen Shane’s shoulders. Or maybe it’s the gentle way Ilya’s touching him.

A corner of Ilya’s mouth lifts. “Do you want to talk about the ad? Or do you want to forget it exists?”

“Forget,” Shane says instantly.

“Okay,” Ilya chuckles.

Shane finally looks at him fully. “You’re really not mad?”

“No,” Ilya says, steady as ever. “We are okay.”

“Okay,” Shane whispers.

Ilya kisses him again. “I’m going to shower. Then we can be tired together.”

“Living the dream,” Shane says earnestly.

He watches Ilya head up the stairs, unable to stop the stupid smile that settles on his face.

.

.

The day sneaks up on him. It’s the kind of day that feels productive on paper. Shane answers emails. He finishes a load of laundry. He even texts his coach back without putting it off for hours. He feels good.

In the locker room after practice, he settles next to Ilya.

“What are your thoughts on home made ramen for dinner tonight? He asks, pulling his practice jersey over his head. He folds it and slides it into his hockey bag.

“Sounds perfect.” Ilya says, smiles up at him from where he’s unlacing his skates. 

“Hollander?” One of the trainers pop their head into the locker room.

“Yeah?” 

“Can you switch time slots with Bood for tomorrow? He’s got a baby shower.” 

Shane opens his mouth. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he says automatically.

The words flow out of him like a breath. They’re smooth and well practiced. So well practiced it’s second nature. The trainer thanks him and walks away before Shane’s brain catches up. Boodram’s time slot is at noon tomorrow. Shane goes to yoga at noon on Sundays. 

He stands there for a second, under shirt halfway over his head, irritation blooming too late. Tomorrow was supposed to be quiet. He had planned on leaving here and going straight to yoga. He would be home early. He wanted that time. He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him. 

He exhales through his nose, annoyed with himself. “I know.” 

When they get home, he wordlessly walks over to the chart, not even placing down his keys yet. He marks it without ceremony. He doesn’t allow himself to overthink it, scribbling the line onto the chart and then walking away. 

Nineteen.

.

.

Shane has been on the phone with Hayden for over an hour. He called initially to complain about his mother in law taking control of planning the twins' birthday party, and it spiraled from there. Shane’s in the kitchen now, sleeves pushed up, chopping scallions for the ramen. The pot is already simmering, steam fogging the cabinets. His phone is propped against the backsplash on speaker, Hayden’s voice filling the room while Shane works.

“So,” Hayden says, way too cheerful, “How’s life under Soviet rule?”

Shane snorts, dragging the knife through the pile of freshly chopped scallions. “Cut it out.”

“Come on,” Hayden says. “Where we at? Any disciplinary action yet?”

Shane shakes his head. “You’re such a dick.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m not telling you,” Shane shoots pointedly, but he’s smiling despite himself.

“Coward.”

Shane nudges the phone with his wrist to keep it from slipping. “How’s the twins’ party planning going? Still a nightmare?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Hayden says. “Have you been spanked, yes or no?”

“Oh my god,” Shane groans. “Please shut up.”

He glances toward the living room on instinct. Ilya is stretched out on the couch, half-watching something on TV, half on his phone. His eyes flick up briefly, amused. Shane slides the scallions into a bowl and reaches for the garlic, crushing a clove with the side of the knife.

“I just need to know if you’ll be able to sit when you guys come over for dinner on Monday, that’s all.” Hayden continues, and Shane can hear the smile on his voice. “That’s two days away, you think your ass can recover by then?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Shane hisses, mincing the garlic. “Nothing’s happened yet, okay? Now shut up.” 

“Come on, dude. I can’t tell anyone and I can’t talk to you about it?”

Shane drags the knife to push the garlic aside. “I’m hanging up with you Hayden.”

“Wait no!” Hayden blurts, “I have to ask you something.”

“If this is about me getting spanked I’m gonna lose it.” 

Ilya huffs out a laugh from the living room.

“It’s not.” Hayden snorts. “I’ve got this charity thing next weekend. Fancy, annoying, lots of talking to people I don’t like. I don’t wanna go alone.”

Shane begins using the knife to tip the garlic into the bowl without looking up. “Mhm.”

“So you’ll come with me, right? And we can suffer together?”

“Yeah, sure.” Again, the words slide out of him like a well rehearsed monologue. They’re easy; Automatic.

The knife stops mid-motion. Shane’s brow furrows as his brain catches up, slow and unwelcome. Next weekend. A charity thing. Fancy. Loud. Small talk. Smiling until his face hurts.

His stomach sinks.

He shoots his eyes to Ilya, whose gaze is already fixed on him. Ilya tilts his chin, just slightly, in the direction of the fridge. Shane winces, lips pressing together before he can stop himself. He gives Ilya a sheepish little smile, half apology, half I know.

“You’re a lifesaver, man,” Hayden says. “Seriously. I owe you.”

“Yeah,” Shane says faintly. “No problem.”

He sets the knife down, wipes his hands on a towel, and walks to the fridge. He lets himself fall into the routine; getting the marker, popping the cap off, scanning the chart to see where the tally should go. He sees that there is a lonesome group of four tallys that he can now clump together into a neat group of five, making four complete sets. 

Wait.

His brain buffers as he scans over the chart again. He begins counting the tallies. Three groups of five already sit on the page; five, ten, fifteen. Then the four extras beside them. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen.

Nineteen tallies. 

The realization lands all at once. Anxiety immediately begins coursing through his veins. He has to finish the last group. He painstakenly drags the marker across the four individual tallies. 

Twenty.

“Oh,” Shane breathes, barely audible. Spit begins to pool in his mouth as his body forgets how to function. 

“Shane?” Hayden’s voice crackles through the phone. “You still there?”

Shane swallows hard, suddenly noticing how out of breath he feels.

“Yeah,” Shane says breathlessly, snapping the cap of the marker back on a little too hard. His heart is thudding now, loud in his ears. “Yeah, I just- uh. Sorry. The ramen’s boiling over.”

“That’s not-”

“I gotta go,” Shane cuts in, already backing away from the fridge. “I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Dude-”

He hangs up before Hayden can finish the sentence. The kitchen is very quiet, just the soft bubbling of the pot on the stove and the pounding of his heart. Shane stays where he is, staring at the chart like it might rearrange itself into a different number if he waits long enough. His breath has long been lost in his throat and he can’t pull his eyes away. He counts the tallys again; five, ten, fifteen, twenty. His stomach twists, and if his head got any lighter he would certainly pass out. How did he get here? Wasn't he just on nine? His hands clench at his sides, the marker still burning his grip. 

He was doing better. He was doing good. 

How?

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice is soft, tentative, carrying across the kitchen.

Shane doesn’t answer. He can’t. He just keeps staring, counting and recounting the tallies.

“Shane,” Ilya repeats, stepping closer, brushing a hand lightly against his arm.

Shane finally blinks, tears welling. “Twenty,” he blurts, voice tight, almost strangled. “There’s twenty.”

Ilya steps closer, hands sliding gently around Shane’s sides. “It’s okay,” he says quietly. “Really. You’re okay.”

Shane breathes out and it rattles through his body.  He feels a tear slide down his cheek. 

“I don’t… I don’t even know how I got here. It’s supposed to be- I’m supposed to be getting better. I’m supposed to be-” He shakes his head, voice trailing off. “I don’t know what I’m doing. How did I let it get to twenty?”

Ilya leans gently against Shane’s temple. “Shh,” he murmurs directly into Shane’s ear. “Is okay, Shane.”

“This feels awful,” Shane whispers. “I feel so guilty.” 

“I will help you,” Ilya says gently. “Tomorrow, you give me the guilt. I will make it go away. Okay?”

“Tomorrow?” Shane breathes, the weight in his chest making the word heavy.

“Tomorrow,” Ilya nods, soft and steady. “We will take care of it tomorrow. For now, breathe.”

Shane closes his eyes, wrapping his arms around Ilya, burying his face in his neck. His chest rattles again as he sucks in a breath.

“Tonight, we will finish making dinner, and eat  together.” Ilya says, gentle but firm. “Then we shower, and I will wash you up. Then we get into bed, and I will scratch your back until your eyes close. That is all we do tonight. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane whispers.

“Okay,” Ilya echoes, holding him just a little tighter.

They go through the night just as Ilya said they would. They finish making dinner, and eat it together in front of the TV. They take a shower and Ilya gently drags a wash cloth across Shane’s skin. They crawl into bed, Shane resting on Ilya’s chest as his fingers trail softly across Shane’s spine. Normally, Shane would be asleep within minutes.

But not tonight. 

Tonight his body refuses to settle. He shifts constantly. His hips, shoulders, ankles, all buzzing with electricity. His mind constantly looping through images of himself over Ilya’s lap.

“Shane,” Ilya says finally. “You need to sleep.”

“I’m trying.” Shane nearly whines, voice small.

“What’s wrong?” Ilya’s hand never stills, fingers dragging reassuring lines down Shane’s back.

“I-I keep thinking about it. I can’t stop.” His breath wobbles, chest rising and falling unevenly.

Ilya shifts slightly, cupping Shane’s face with his free hand. “About what?”

“Tomorrow. I thought I could do it. I really thought I could fix it.” Shane’s disappointment drips from each word.

Ilya wraps his arms around him, squeezing tightly. “Shh, you tried. It’s your first time trying Shane, it’s hard.” 

Shane tries to steady his heart, certain Ilya can feel the frantic rhythm beneath his chest. He inhales slowly, chest shaking against Ilya’s, but the tension refuses to leave.

“Do you trust me?” Ilya asks, voice soft but earnest.

Shane’s eyes drift to meet Ilya’s. “Of course.”

“I will take care of you, okay?” Ilya whispers, a nearly imperceptible smile tugging at his lips.

“Okay,” Shane whispers back, letting his eyes flutter shut as Ilya begins to scratch his back again. 

.

.

Shane wakes up slow, eyelids heavy and chest tight. Sunlight cuts through the blinds in thin lines, sharp against his skin. He groans as he stretches, rubbing his hands roughly at his eyes as he drags himself up. 

He sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, letting the quiet wash over him before forcing himself to his feet. 

Breakfast is a piece of toast and some tea, barely tasting either. Every swallow feels like a tremendous effort, his stomach knotting tighter with each chew. He finally drags himself into a jacket and heads to the store, hoping that a little motion will settle his nerves.

The store is small, with aisles narrow, and the air humming with fluorescent light and faint music. He picks up the things he needs mechanically, avoiding eye contact, hands trembling slightly. He grabs a coffee on his way out. The caffeine is bitter and warm, but it only heightens the buzz under his skin.

The drive to the trainer feels endless. Every stoplight stretches on, each turn making his chest jump with anticipation of what’s to come when he gets home.  At his appointment with the trainer he goes through the motions, nodding, lifting, answering questions, all the while feeling a faint hum of anxiety tug at the edges of his mind. He catches himself clenching his fists, feeling the energy coil. His pulse picks up, and he forces slow, deliberate breaths.

He regrets switching his time slot. He glances at the clock and groans softly, that marks the end of his yoga class. Yoga usually helps. It centers him. It calms this relentless buzzing under his skin, and he missed it. Today of all days. 

The drive home is slow and steady. He can’t decide if he wants to speed home, just to get it over with, or find something else to drag out the time. The moment he steps through their front door, the quiet hits him. It presses down, making the air heavy in his lungs. His nerves prick at every sound, the faint hum of the fridge, the creak of the floorboards, the ticking of the wall clock. Maybe Ilya isn’t home yet. He doesn’t call out. He doesn’t move past the hallway. If he can just stay here a little longer, he tells himself, maybe he can delay the inevitable.

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice cuts through the quiet, carrying from the living room. 

“Yeah,” his voice is pinched. 

“Come here, please.”

Shane swallows hard, feeling the buzz in his chest spike, his stomach twisting. He grips the edge of the doorway, heart hammering, palms slick with sweat. His mind races so fast he can’t even place his thoughts. He hesitates, just a second longer, savoring the pause, trying to steady the frantic pulse in his chest. Then he exhales and steps forward. 

The hallway feels narrow, the floorboards creak under his careful steps. Every inch closer to the living room stretches time, each step echoing inside his skull. He can hear Ilya moving in the background, soft noises of settling onto the couch, small sounds that are meant to be ordinary, but now feel loaded, like the world is holding its breath with him.

Shane finally enters the room. Ilya’s eyes flick up to meet his, warm and steady. Shane freezes for just a heartbeat, all the tension in his body coiling tighter. He can feel the nerves thrumming under his skin, buzzing like static. Every breath feels too loud in the quiet. Ilya shifts slightly, as if sensing the storm of tension Shane is carrying, hands patting the cushions lightly.

“Come sit,” he says softly. 

Shane nods, barely, gripping his hands together until his knuckles whiten. The room feels too small, the air too thick, his nerves too loud. Every part of him is still spiraling forward, trying to brace for what he knows is coming. He sits stiffly on the edge of the couch, hands tangled in his lap, fingernails digging into himself. His chest buzzes like an angry swarm of bees, heart hammering in a rhythm that won’t sync with his breathing. Every muscle feels taut with anticipation. Ilya’s eyes are on him, calm and steady, and that only makes Shane more aware of himself. The way Ilya tilts his head, the faint, unreadable curve of his lips, the gentle ease of his posture. It all feels so relaxed, and Shane is not relaxed. 

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice is soft, carrying through the air like a tether. “Are you with me?”

Shane blinks in short rapid bursts and nods silently. 

“Shane, talk to me.”

Shane’s hands won’t stop moving. He rubs his palms against his thighs, then laces his fingers together, then pulls them apart again like he can’t stand the feeling of his own skin. His shirt clings uncomfortably to his back. He’s painfully aware of the sweat at his temples, the heat pooling at the base of his spine.

“I…” His voice wobbles, he clears his throat and makes an effort to steady himself. “I really thought I could do it. I didn’t mean to. I just keep… messing up.”

“You tried,” Ilya corrects. “And that is why we’re here, yes? To help?”

Shane nods, then shakes his head, torn between the two. “Ilya, I…I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can.” Ilya says reassuringly. 

“I’m sweating buckets,” Shane blurts, a weak, embarrassed huff of a laugh escaping him as he drags a hand over his face.

“I can see that.” Ilya’s mouth twitches, fond but steady.

There’s a brief pause, and then:  “Do you trust me?”

Shane doesn’t hesitate. “More than anyone.”

“Then you don’t have to worry,” Ilya says gently. “You’re doing this with me.”

Shane’s fingers twist together again. He rocks slightly on the couch, eyes darting anywhere but Ilya. “I-I just…” He lets his voice trail off. 

“Tell me what is going on in your head,” Ilya says, voice low and patient.

“I mean,” he starts slowly, then suddenly words just begin tumbling out. “I can take a hit. I play hockey, obviously I can take a hit. I know how that works. I just, I can’t clear my head about this. I keep thinking about how it’s going to feel. It’s not like the ice or the boards or getting slammed in a game. I know those. I can deal with those. I mean I’ve handled pain before. It’s just, this is new. And my brain won’t stop running through it, and I-I don’t know. I just… yeah.” Shane finally trails off, breath uneven. 

Ilya says quietly, “You are scared. It’s okay.”

Shane’s head snaps up, flustered. “No, I’m not scared, I-”

“I know you,” Ilya says gently, cutting in. “You’re scared. It’s scary, I know. And yes, it will hurt. But then, you will feel better.”

Shane swallows hard. His throat works as he finally forces himself to look at Ilya. Shane’s eyes are bright, glassy, nerves laid completely bare.

“It’s me,” Ilya says softly. He scoots closer now, slow and deliberate, and places his hands on Shane’s shoulders, giving them a firm, grounding squeeze. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Shane breathes.

“I will make sure you are okay,” Ilya says, steady as stone. “I got you.”

Shane nods, small and shaky. His hands finally still, resting against his thighs as he lets himself lean just a fraction closer, anchoring himself in the weight of Ilya’s touch.

“Okay,” Ilya says, voice steady. “Listen, here’s what we’re going to do.”

Shane swallows, eyes flicking to the floor at the sound of the conversation becoming more serious about completing the task at hand. 

“Look at me.” 

Shane immediately obeys, bringing his eyes back up to Ilya’s face. 

“You’re going to go over my lap,” Ilya continues, slow and deliberate. “All I need from you is to give me the guilt. Give me everything you’ve been holding onto. You don’t need to explain. Just give it to me.”

Shane’s mouth feels dry.

“I will decide when we are finished,” Ilya says. “Until then, you listen. You stay still. You let me take care of you. Nothing else. Understand?”

Shane nods faintly, words caught in his throat. He is no stranger to Ilya’s authority. He’s very familiar with getting lost in Ilya’s commands. He can feel a slight calm rush over him with the unshakable certainty that Ilya will handle it. It doesn’t erase the nerves, but it makes them feel slightly more manageable, contained. Because even though spanking is new, Ilya is familiar. And anything he does with Ilya is safe. Because Ilya is safe. 

“You still trust me?” Ilya asks, voice softer now, but still firm.

“Always,” Shane whispers.

“Okay,” Ilya says, sitting back on the couch and patting his thighs. “Come.” 

Shane takes a second to process the command. He blinks at Ilya’s thighs, shifting his gaze to his face for just a moment. He takes a trembling breath, gripping the edge of the couch just to hold something, before slowly letting himself move towards Ilya. 

He scoots over, closing the gap between them. Pulling his legs onto the couch, he kneels beside where Ilya sits. Shane bends slowly, aligning his body over the other’s lap. His hands press lightly against Ilya’s thighs to steady himself, then shift to the couch. Shane takes a deep, shaky breath, letting it out in a long hiss, before slowly lowering himself over Ilya’s thighs. He’s grateful that Ilya had sat back far enough on the couch that he could comfortably have his body resting against the cushions, as opposed to having to brace himself with his hands on the floor. 

Ilya shifts the position of his legs to prop Shane’s ass up, ever so slightly, and heat pools on the back of Shane’s neck. He pushes himself onto his forearms, staring ahead at a framed photo of them and his parents on the wall. He immediately lets his eyes fall back down to the couch instead. Ilya rests his dominant hand on the swell of Shane’s ass, his other wrapping firmly around Shane's waist. He can’t help but shutter at the vulnerability of knowing his ass is directly within Ilya’s line of sight. 

“We start now, okay?”

Shane nods once, and tries to steady his racing heart. “Okay.” he whispers.

The first swat lands almost immediately. A sharp, firm pressure that jolts through him. Shane bites back a gasp and clenches his hands into fists. The sting lingers well after the strike lands. Shane can’t help but wonder if it would have stung less if he was wearing jeans instead of shorts. The second hit lands faster than he expects. It carries much more force, deliberate and measured. It stings. Shane yelps, jerking forward instinctively.  

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, voice trembling. 

His fingers dig into his palms, white-knuckled, as he drops his head below his shoulders. The next strike is just as unforgiving as the last. Shane makes a broken sound that surprises even him. It's somewhere between a yelp and a whine, his whole body jolting. 

“Ilya,” he gasps. 

Another swat lands before he can recover. The sting stacks on top of the last, hot and sharp. Shane whimpers, the sound thin and helpless. His hips twitch, legs shifting uselessly as if his body is searching for an escape it knows isn’t there. His shoulders hunch, instinctively trying to curl in on himself, but there’s nowhere to go. He feels like he needs to catch his breath already. 

“Oh my god,” he pants. “Holy shit, Ilya, t-that hurts.”

“I know,” is all he gets as a response before Ilya decides it’s time to find a rhythm. Hits start falling in quick succession, giving Shane no time to process the last one before the next one registers on his skin. Shane’s pulse roars in his ears. 

“Oh my fucking god,” he whimpers, throat incredibly tight. 

He’s quickly reduced to a mix of sounds he’s never produced before. Deep guttural whimpers and high pitched whines. He shifts between holding his breath and gasping for air. He presses his forehead against the couch and he finds himself uncontrollably clenching and flexing his hands.

Shane knew Ilya was strong, often picking Shane up with ease. Tossing him around like he wasn’t nearly 200 lbs. Still, Shane never knew Ilya was this strong. Each hit was a mix of a sting and burn, constantly layering over the last. Shane couldn’t help but to start to writhe. 

“Easy Shane, stay still.” Ilya tightens his grip on Shane’s waist, forcing him to still his movements. 

“I-I’m trying,” he whines breathlessly, voice pitching higher. “I promise I’m trying.”

The relentless rain of spanks continues. Shane isn’t sure if Ilya has started using more force, or if the sting is just starting to shift into a new category. He clenches his eyes as hard as he can, and finds himself slowly melting towards the cushions, muscles giving way on him. Within a minute his body is fully flat against the couch, his cheek pressing into the fabric. He clutches at the edge of the cushions as the hits continue. 

“Fuck,” His voice is nearly trembling now. 

Each hit leaves him more undone than the last. His whines dissolve into shaky, breathless noises; his body trembles continuously now, unable to settle. He presses his face into the couch, but it does nothing to muffle the sounds he makes; the little broken whimpers, the sharp inhales, the desperate hitches in his breathing. A particularly unforgiving slap lands on his upper thigh. 

“Ilya, oh god.” Shane whimpers, voice barely holding together as a tear slips down his face. “I can’t- I can’t.”

Another lands directly on top of the last, and the damn breaks. He chokes out a broken sob that drowns out a plea, and his tears begin to pour. He writhes again, hips shifting, shoulders shaking, every nerve screaming. The ache has built into something almost overwhelming, something that makes his chest feel tight and his thoughts scatter. Tears fall steadily now, his face hot and wet, his hands curling and uncurling uselessly against the fabric of the couch. 

“Ilya please,” his sob is laced with desperation as his breath heaves.

The blows stop abruptly, and Shane’s body goes limp as he gasps for air. Ilya’s hand smooths across Shane’s burning ass, and the juxtaposition makes Shane’s head spin. He stays folded against the couch, body still trembling, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls. The sting still burns, loud and insistent, even without the next strike.

“Breathe,” Ilya says quietly. “Slow down, Shane. I got you.”

Shane’s cheek presses into the fabric as he nods faintly, the motion more felt than seen. He drags in a shaky breath that stutters halfway through, then another. His fingers clutch the cushion harder, knuckles aching.

“I-I need a second,” he manages through sobs, voice wrecked. “Please, just- hold on. I can’t- I can’t breathe yet.”

“Okay,” Ilya answers immediately. His grip on Shane’s waist loosens just enough to feel grounding instead of restraining. “We will take a break. Breathe. I’m right here.”

Shane sobs quietly through a few more breaths, chest still rising and falling heavily, but beginning to slow. His body shakes, overstimulated and raw. His ass thrums, burning despite the gentle way Ilya’s hand soothes over it.

“Hey,” Ilya says softly, waiting until Shane’s breathing evens out just a fraction. “I need you to listen to me for a second, okay?”

Shane nods weakly against the couch, just barely able to see Ilya in his peripheral vision.

“I’m going to pull your shorts down,” Ilya says calmly. 

The words send panic flooding through Shane’s veins.

“Not yet. Just listen.”

“No.” Shane pushes up onto his forearms and twists back toward Ilya, breath hitching. “Ilya, please. You don’t have to. It already hurts. I swear it-” His voice breaks into a sob. “Please don’t.”

“I know it hurts,” Ilya says softly. “I can see that. Shane, listen to me.”

Shane whines, small and desperate. “Please. I’ll try harder. I’ll be better-”

“Shane.” Ilya rubs his hands firmly up Shane’s back, steady and grounding. He reaches up to gently wipe away Shane’s tears with the back of his hand. “I need you to listen. I need you to be a good boy and listen to my words, okay? Can you do that?”

Shane nods weakly, because that he can do. He may not be able to catch his breath, or sit down comfortably for a few days, but he can be good for Ilya. 

“You are not in trouble. You are not bad,” Ilya says, his voice somehow both soft and firm. “I am so proud of you. You tried so hard. But this is the part that makes it stick, yes? We need to do this so next time is easier.”

All Shane can manage is a nod. He said he needed something that would stick; something he couldn’t talk his way out of. Ilya is giving him exactly what he asked for. Exactly what he needs.

“I’m going to pull your shorts down,” Ilya says again, steady and clear. “And then we’ll finish. Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane whispers, sinking back down until he’s flat against the couch again.

Ilya’s hand slides to the waistband of Shane’s shorts. The contact alone is enough to make Shane flinch, breath hitching sharply as his body tenses all over again. His fingers curl into the couch, knuckles whitening as he braces himself, heart pounding so hard it makes his ears ring.

“Almost done,” Ilya murmurs, calm and grounding. “Okay?”

Shane swallows hard, throat tight. “Okay,” he whispers again, the word barely audible.

Ilya carefully tugs the fabric of his shorts and briefs downward, letting them bunch at his thighs. The moment the air hits his skin, Shane shudders. A soft, helpless whine slips out of him before he can stop it. He feels impossibly exposed, every nerve suddenly awake.

“Ilya,” he breathes, his voice shaking with uncertainty. The sound of his own voice catches him off guard; he sounds scared. 

“I know,” Ilya says gently. “You’re being so good.”

Ilya adjusts his legs again to shift Shane’s hips. 

“We start now.”

Shane presses his face harder into the couch cushions, eyes squeezed shut. His body trembles as he waits, skin already buzzing, already too sensitive.

The first skin-on-skin strike lands with a loud crack echoing through the room. The difference is immediate. Shane cries out, a sharp, broken sound torn straight from his chest as the sting flares hotter and deeper than before. His whole body jolts, legs tensing, hips twitching helplessly as the sensation overwhelms him.

“Oh-oh god,” he gasps, breath getting trapped in his throat. “Ilya.”

“I know,” Ilya says again. “I’m so sorry.” 

Ilya finds his rhythm quickly and suddenly everything starts to blur together. Shane loses track of individual moments, of why they were even doing this. He loses track of anything but the overwhelming heat and the way it makes his brain scatter. The pain builds into something dense and all-encompassing, no longer sharp so much as consuming. He sobs openly now, face pressed into the couch, sounds tearing out of him without warning. He couldn’t form words even if he tried.

At some point, his body stops trying to fight it. The tension drains out of him in uneven waves, leaving him heaving and shaking, muscles trembling with exhaustion. His cries morph into broken sobs and noises he couldn’t describe if he tried.

Shane’s head is in a never ending whirlwind and somehow, through it all, Ilya stays steady. His voice somehow cuts through the haze; quiet, grounding, and never harsh. Reminding Shane to breathe. Telling him he’s doing well. That he’s safe. That he’s good. That Ilya is proud of him. Each word lands somewhere deep, even when Shane can’t quite process it. Eventually, the pain crests and begins to ebb, leaving behind a deep, throbbing ache and a strange buzz in its wake.

“Shh, is done. You did so good.” Ilya’s hand smooths gently over Shane’s abused ass. 

The words barely register at first. Shane stays where he is, limp and boneless, chest rising and falling in shallow pulls. Tears still cascade down his face, but the panic has faded, replaced by something raw and heavy. He feels strangely calm.

Ilya easily falls beside Shane on the couch, his legs still trapped beneath Shane’s weight. He settles onto his back and he pulls Shane on top of his chest. Their stomachs press together and Shane instinctively buries his face in Ilya’s neck. Ilya rubs his hands gently down his back, whispering praise in his ear and letting him cry. 

Shane continues sobbing quietly into Ilya’s neck, the sounds small and wrecked, like he’s wrung hollow. Ilya doesn’t move. He just keeps rubbing slow, steady paths down Shane’s back, one hand warm and anchoring between his shoulder blades, the other moving in calm, repetitive strokes. 

And for a while, that’s all there is; Shane sobbing and the thrumming pain of his ass. 

“You’re okay,” Ilya murmurs into his hair. “I got you.”

Shane clings to him, fingers curling into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt like he’s afraid of slipping away. His breathing is still uneven, but it starts to slow. His sobs break into softer, hiccupping breaths as his body comes down from the intensity.

Ilya presses a gentle kiss to Shane’s temple. “You did so good,” he says again, quieter now. “I am so proud.”

Shane shakes his head weakly against Ilya’s chest. “I’m sorry,” his voice is hoarse.

Ilya stills. He pulls back just enough to look at Shane, one hand coming up to cradle the side of his face. 

“Hey,” he says, firm yet gentle. “No, do not apologize. You did nothing wrong.”

Ilya shifts carefully, keeping Shane close but propping them up, easing them into a more comfortable position. Shane shifts his body to be beside Ilya, as opposed to on top of him. 

“Cold?” Ilya asks.

Shane nods faintly. Ilya reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulls it over them both, tucking it around Shane with deliberate care. He wiggles Shane’s shorts and briefs the rest of the way off, and pulls him to snuggle into his side.

“I did good?” Shane whispers. 

“So good. I’m so proud.” Ilya’s voice is as sincere as Shane has ever heard it. Like the first time Ilya told Shane he loved him. Ilya adjusts the blanket, then resumes the steady pressure of his hand on Shane’s back. 

“Relax,” he murmurs. “We will talk more after, and I will put lotion on you.”

Shane melts into him at that, tension finally draining in earnest. His body is heavy and sore and buzzing, but he feels cared for. He feels loved. They stay like that for a few minutes, side by side beneath the blanket. Shane’s breathing evens out gradually, the sharp edges smoothing down into something slower and heavier. His cheek rests against Ilya’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Each rise and fall grounds him a little more. Ilya is still beside him. 

Maybe too still.

Shane only notices it when he shifts, trying to tuck himself closer. Ilya’s arm tightens like he’s afraid if he loosens it even a fraction, Shane will leave. His hand at Shane’s back is warm, but rigid in a way it hadn’t been before. After a moment, Ilya exhales and carefully slides out from under the blanket.

“I’m going to get the lotion,” he says, voice quiet. 

Shane nods, still fuzzy, watching him move across the room. He walks with his shoulders held square and stiff. His movements are overly precise, like when he’s playing a game with stakes much too high, thinking about every move instead of just taking it. Shane’s only ever seen him like this when he went to play for the cup. He quickly comes back, lotion in hand, and settles beside Shane.

“Come back over my lap,”  Ilya says, patting his thighs.

Shane’s eyes shoot to Ilya’s and his stomach drops. Heat flares across his face. His body tenses and breath gets caught in his throat.

“No,” Ilya says immediately, sharper than he meant to be, then softer. “No, hey. We are done. I promise.” He shifts closer, hands coming to gently squeeze Shane’s arms. “This is just lotion. That’s all.”

Shane swallows, nodding, embarrassed by how fast panic surged. “Okay,” he says softly.

Ilya helps him reposition, slow and careful, like he’s afraid of startling him. Shane settles over his lap again, this time without the same sharp dread, but it’s Ilya who feels different now. His thighs are stiff, his tension nearly palpable in the air. Ilya warms the lotion between his palms longer than necessary. He sighs through his nose, the air shaking a little as it leaves him.

“I’m-” He stops, then clears his throat. “Tell me if anything hurts too much.”

Ilya’s palms gently touch Shane’s skin, warm and soft. His hands move carefully, reverently, smoothing instead of pressing. Shane hums, content as Ilya cares for him with such gentle hands. When he grazes over a particularly sore spot, Shane can’t help but to hiss. 

Ilya’s hands jolt off Shane’s body. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” Shane quickly reassures, turning to glance back at Ilya. 

Ilya’s hands are hovering over Shane’s ass as his eyes dart across Shane’s face, eyebrows worried together. His eyes are slightly glazed over with a sheen of tears, hands shaking.

“Ilya,” Shane breathes softly.

“I’m fine,” Ilya says so too quickly. “I just- Are you okay?”

Shane shifts carefully, turning his head as much as he can to look at him. It’s unmistakable now. Ilya’s jaw is tight, there’s a rattle in his ribs when he breathes. His shoulders are hunched forward. He never stops analyzing Shane’s face.

“I’m okay,” Shane says firmly. “I promise.”

Ilya trembles, his hands still hovering above Shane’s skin.

“Ilya, you can touch me.”

Ilya’s hands shake as they slowly sink down to rest on Shane’s ass. Shane does his absolute best to not react to the contact on his sore skin, but it must show on his face because Ilya quickly takes them off again. He presses them flat against the couch cushions on either side of his body. 

“I hurt you,” Ilya says finally.

Shane quickly gets up and settles into Ilya’s lap, cradling his face with both hands.

“You didn’t hurt me,” Shane says, slow and firm. “You did what I asked. You checked in on me during it. You’re taking care of me right now.”

Ilya’s breath stutters. His hands come up automatically, gripping Shane’s wrists like he needs the contact. His eyes aren’t quite on Shane anymore.

“My father,” he says quietly.

The words land heavy between them and Shane feels his whole body seize.

“He used to say discipline would help me,” Ilya continues, voice tight. “And if I cried too much he would-” His jaw clenches, cutting himself off. “And for a second, when I was hitting you, I felt like him.” He stops, swallowing hard.

Shane’s mind stutters, then snaps into something sharp and blinding. The image is incomplete, mercifully so, but it’s enough. Ilya’s father towering over him. Making him cry and then deciding to hurt him more. The thought makes Shane’s stomach turn, heat roaring up his spine, his jaw locking hard enough to ache. The idea of Ilya crying and being met with cruelty instead of comfort, now as a nearly 30 year old man, makes Shane feel murderous with rage, never mind Ilya as a child.

“You’re not him,” Shane says, steady and sure. “Not even close.”

Ilya’s eyes flick back to him, Shane can barely see their color through the tears welling around them.

“I made you cry.” Ilya’s voice cracks as a tear slips down his face.

“I asked you to,” Shane says immediately, pressing closer. “You listened to me. You stopped when I needed a break. You cared if I was okay.” His thumb brushes gently at the tear that rests on Ilya’s jaw. “That’s the difference.”

Ilya shakes his head once, just barely. “You were so scared.” 

“I was,” Shane agrees, without hesitation. “And it hurt. And I cried.” He leans in until their foreheads touch. “And I asked you to do it. I wanted to do it. I wanted it to be with you. Because I trust you. Because you stop when I ask. Because you check in. Because even when I am falling apart, you are always there to hold me. Because you are safe.”

Ilya can only sniffle as more tears drip from his eyes. 

“You didn’t hurt me,” Shane continues softly. “You stayed with me. You held me after. You’re holding me now.” He thumbs away Ilya’s tears. “That’s not what he did. You will never be him.”

Ilya’s breath breaks fully then, a quiet, wrecked sound he doesn’t seem to notice making. His hands slide from Shane’s wrists to his back, clutching him in like he’s afraid Shane might disappear.

“You could never hurt me,” Shane says, certain. “Not like that. Not ever.” Shane gently caresses Ilya’s hair. “I feel so much better now, I promise.”

Ilya bows his head, pressing his face into Shane’s shoulder. His body finally gives, tension draining out of him in a long, shuddering exhale.

“Okay,” Ilya whispers, more to himself than anything.

“Im so proud of you.” Shane whispers. “Thank you for doing this for me.”

Ilya squeezes him even tighter. He nods against Shane’s shoulder. His hand comes up to thread through Shane’s hair, tentative at first, then steady. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are red, his lashes wet.

“Okay,” he says again, steadier this time. 

“Okay,” Shane repeats in a whisper. “Lets take a nap, hm?”

Ilya nods and smiles weakly in response.

Shane pulls on his boxers before gently wrapping a hand around Ilya’s wrist, guiding him to the bedroom. Shane tosses off his shirt as they settle into bed. He curls into the crook of Ilya’s arm as they tuck themselves under the blankets. The room is quiet, save for the gentle rustle of sheets and the slow, steady rhythm of their breathing. Ilya presses a light kiss to the top of Shane’s head, then rests his cheek against his hair. His hand drifts lazily down Shane’s back, bunching up his shirt to trace soft, circular patterns against his skin.

Shane sighs, letting himself sink fully into the warmth and safety of Ilya's presence. His body is still humming from everything, but begins to relax in earnest. He buries his face against Ilya’s chest, one arm draped over him, and feels the tension finally slipping away. A soft smile blooms on Shane’s face as his eyelids grow heavy. The silence is laced in trust and the unspoken promise that no matter what, they’ll keep each other safe.

Ilya’s breathing slows with the speed of his soothing hand, and Shane matches it instinctively. The last traces of adrenaline fade, replaced by a deep comfortable drowsiness. 

“I love you,” Shane murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

“I love you too,” Ilya whispers back as his fingers brush a gentle path across Shane’s back. “Always.”